


Run Through the Jungle

by Fictionwriter



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Case Fic, Community: ci5_boxoftricks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionwriter/pseuds/Fictionwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cowley assigns Bodie and Doyle to watch a South African journalist in London. What should have been a routine job turns into a dangerously explosive situation with international implications. Unexpected surprises follow the lads as they try to untangle the web of intrigue, and their own evolving feelings for each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Through the Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by the remarkable Togsos

 

 

 **PROLOGUE**

  _Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,  
Lo, it's all so true,  
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow  
'Cause the Devil's on the loose. "_

Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Woa, don't look back to see.

The _bakkie_ \- old, dented, its colour partly obscured by a heavy coating of dust - skidded to a halt on the dirt track, stirring up even more dust to settle over the bodywork. 

The vehicle remained as it was for several minutes. Then the passenger door of the cab opened and a man stepped out, his dark skin showing the dust that would have permeated the inside of the vehicle as well as the outside. Seconds later the driver’s door also opened but this time the figure was a woman, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt, her pale features burnished to a tan by constant exposure to the sun.  

“Beitbridge is about 10k’s. This is as far as I can take you without us being seen by the border guards,” she told him.

“Yes, I know.” 

The woman walked around to where the man was standing by the door of the _bakkie_. Tentatively she reached out to touch his arm.

“Are you sure this is the only answer?” she asked yet again, not wanting to hear the answer but hoping, somehow, for a reprieve. 

“You know it is,” the man told her, reaching up to draw a finger down her brow. “I have to go, now.”

She nodded and whispered her farewell, the tears running down her face. “ _Hamba kahle.”_

“ _Sala kahle,_ ” he returned, brushing softly at the wetness. Then he was gone, heading towards the swiftly flowing river barely visible between the distant fever trees gathered along its bank.

She watched until the heat waves made his image blur and shimmer, distorting it. Then she returned to the _bakkie_ and drove back the way she had come.

==============

Arms ploughing rhythmically, the swimmer cut through the slow moving water as quickly as he could, fear of the monsters lurking in the shadows of the river driving him on as much as the fear of discovery from the riverbank.   The moon, playing hide and seek behind drifting clouds, sent silvery glints of light flashing then fading over the water, giving out tantalising glimpses of the far side. _Not far now, not far_.  _Keep going, keep quiet._

Finally the promise was real and the bank was there. Under cover of the hanging vegetation he drifted slowly, catching his breath and waiting for the moonlight to evade the clouds long enough to show him a safe landing place. It would be too ironic for him to have come this far, only to stumble over a sleeping croc or stray border guard. Eventually he found the place he wanted, a relatively open patch of muddy riverbank, and dragged himself from the water to lie in the chill air.   Standing for a moment in the still night he gazed back over the grey-green greasy river to the land he had left. Finally he turned and headed north.

By the time the sun was rising he had reached his destination. Herd boys were moving cattle from the _kraal_ and out through the _mielie_ fields into the dawn light, the women already preparing food over their fires and cook pots.  Perched between Mopani trees, the round thatched huts stretching in a circle looked old and well used. Chickens scratched at the hard earth as babies rolled in the dirt next to them.   

His sudden appearance drew their attention and they all stopped to stare, the women reflexively retrieving their babies from the ground and balancing them on their hips. But he ignored them and made his way to the largest hut in the centre of the village. 

Stopping in front of the blanket-covered doorway, he waited. The man who emerged was old, grey haired, his face and body covered in scars, but for all that he held a power about him, wrapped as close as the leopard skin cape draped around his shoulders.

He bowed slightly to the old man, his hands held in front of him palms upward, right hand on top of left. 

“ _Sawubona._ ”

 _  
"Ngikhona _ ,” the old man responded, then his face light up in a smile and he clasped the man’s hands. “Johnny, you made it!”

“Yes, I made it."

 “Good. Come eat. Rest. The comrades will be here tomorrow. They will take you north with them.”

“It is good.”

Johnny paused as he was about to enter the hut and, as he had done at the river, looked back in the direction he had come, the home he was leaving and the people he loved, who loved him. Then he entered.

 **PART ONE**

 _Thought I heard a rumblin'  
Callin' to my name,  
Two hundred million guns are loaded  
Satan cries, "Take aim!"_

 _Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Woa, don't look back to see._

 

Doyle glowered then bristled and Bodie saw it coming, the slow burn on the end of a short fuse that promised spectacular fireworks. He tried to stop it, he really did. A subtle tenseness, the lift of an eyebrow was usually all it took to convey his message but this time Doyle ignored him. 

Mind, Cowley was just as bad. If Doyle was the fuse then Cowley - Mr Cowley - was the spark that would set it off.   Perhaps better to just step back and let them have the barney they’d been heading for since things had gone pear shaped with the latest op because Cowley had an obsession with ‘need to know’ and they hadn’t known enough, according to Doyle’s assessment anyway.   Bodie wasn’t one to get his fingers, or anything else, burned on account of his volatile partner or his hard arsed boss. Still, the consequences of Doyle’s temper always had a bad habit of landing on him anyway, one way or another. So, perhaps more vocal intervention was called for.

A small cough and, “Ray, don’t you think …” Just a murmur really, not loud enough to draw attention to himself from unwanted quarters but enough to maybe get through to said volatile partner. All he got was a piercing look from under drawn brows; Doyle was having none of it, his sense of injustice working overtime as usual. 

Distraction dealt with, Doyle turned back to his boss, attitude and belligerence intact. 

“It was deliberate then, hangin’ us out to dry like that?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘hanging out to dry’, Doyle. And perhaps you would have been best served trying not to get wet in the first place! I expect my agents to be able to handle themselves in all circumstances.” Cowley was as brusque and dismissive as usual.

“A bit hard doin’ that, when you don’t have all the information … Sir.”

“You certainly had sufficient information to carry out the task I assigned you both. Your own incompetence can hardly be laid at my door.” Cowley paused and looked at them both. “However, seeing you feel that way about things, Doyle, I have an assignment for the both of you I’m sure will suit your delicate sensibilities.”

Oh, great! Bodie’s lips tightened and he shot a sideways look at Doyle, who shrugged with a “What’d I do?” look. Sighing, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest and turned his attention back to his boss, who was ignoring them both with studied indifference.

“There is someone I want the two of you to keep a very close eye on over the next few days. Nicole Goossens is a South African national, an investigative reporter with the Rand Daily Mail, based in Johannesburg. She arrived in London yesterday.” Cowley placed the file he was holding open on the desk for his men to see. “My sources inform me she has been sent to Europe on assignment to investigate irregularities in the dealings of the South African Government’s Department of Information and certain publishing houses here and in Europe.”

“Irregularities?” queried Doyle.

“Yes, it seems there may be a consortium of high profile businessmen and publishers staging an advertising campaign directed at ‘selling’ apartheid to Western nations.”

“Propaganda isn’t exactly our department, Sir.”

“Perhaps not. But money laundering, bribery of Government officials and intimidation are and the Department of Information has been linked to all of those activities both here and in their own country.”

“There’ve been rumours the South Africans are involved in arms dealing with Israel too, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, Bodie. They deny it of course, but the Government has been courting Israeli support for some time and arms dealing is an important part of the courtship. And they don’t hesitate to use intimidation, or force to keep their dirty secrets. You’re to tail Miss Goossens. Protect her if necessary. She could be treading a very dangerous path and I want to make sure nothing untoward happens to her.”

“Isn’t this something better suited to Ruth Pettifer or Susan?” Bodie enquired, hoping for a reprieve. “They’d stand more chance of getting close, tailing her without raising any suspicions.” 

“Possibly, but I don’t want Ruth or Susan, I want you and Doyle. Find out who her contacts in London are and don’t let her catch on you’re following her, try to be discreet!”

“Yes, Sir,” they echoed in unison and Doyle dutifully picked up the file as they headed to the door.

Bodie waited until they were safely out of Cowley’s office before he let his irritation show. “Nice one, Doyle. Good way of getting up the Cow’s nose.”

“He was askin’ for it, the old bastard. He never tells us everything and one day it’s going to come back and bite us on the arse.”

“True, old son. But arguing with him gets us dumped with junior grade assignments like this, doesn’t it?”

“Dunno, it’s better than letting him get away with it, like some people I could mention.”

Seconds later Doyle was trapped up against the wall of the deserted corridor, pinned in place by an irate Bodie who was glaring down at him. “Are you inferring something, Raymond?”

“Well,” he drawled, “you’re always cozying up to the old man. Quite the favourite aren’t you? Always full of ‘yes sirs’. Think I’ll get you to ask for a raise next time. Reckon we’d stand a better chance.” The green eyes were serious as they gazed at Bodie. “Think you better give over though? Someone sees us they might get the wrong idea, or the right one. Depends on which way you look at it I suppose.” Then he grinned, the wonderfully wicked grin that always promised so much. Bodie tried to resist, but he’d discovered long ago resisting Raymond Doyle wasn’t an option. Returning the grin he pulled back, waiting for his partner to move off the wall before giving a quick flick to the back of the curly hair. Retaliation was swift but Bodie was faster, dodging the elbow meant for his ribs with ease. The scuffling and laughter continued until they made it to Bodie’s Capri.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd though?” Doyle said as he looked through the open file balanced on his knee. When Bodie just quirked a questioning eyebrow at him he went on, “Cowley wanting us to follow this reporter. Not our usual thing at all.”

“Best not to question the Cow, you know that,” Bodie replied, manoeuvring the car through traffic as they headed for Kensington High Street.

“Yeah, then he might actually have to tell us something.” Doyle was obviously still smarting over his latest run in with their boss. “Looks all right though, this bird, doesn’t she?” he continued studying the full-face photograph from the file.

“You mean all right for a South African or all right for a reporter?”

“Nah! I mean all right for a bird.”

Bodie looked for and found the right degree of nonchalance as he glanced at the photo. “If you say so, probably not my type though.”

Doyle seemed to be looking at him closely and Bodie wasn’t at all sure what the look meant. “Getting picky are we? I thought anything with boobs and still breathing was your type.” 

Bodie didn’t answer mainly because he didn’t know how. Their first time together as lovers had been in Bodie’s flat with Doyle pacing like a caged tiger, unable to come down from the adrenaline high after two months of undercover work which could have ended badly but didn’t. He’d grabbed hold of the strung-out body, intending to calm his partner, slow his restless energy but when Ray’s eyes had met his he’d seen the naked desire in them and understood, then wondered why it had taken him so long. Their coupling had been swift, passionate and over all too quickly. The next time was better.

They had continued to date women, their changed relationship too new and untried to forgo old habits but in the months since that first time Bodie had come to realise Ray was everything and all he wanted. He just didn’t know how Ray felt and he was afraid to ask. So now, as always, he maintained his silence and concentrated on his driving. After a moment Doyle shrugged and turned back to the file. 

===============

The picture didn’t do her justice. Nicole Goossens was beautiful. Tall and slim with blond hair held back at the forehead with clips so that the long tresses framed her face then fell in waves over her shoulders. Light blue eyes and perfect brows in a symmetrical face and lips that turned up nicely when she smiled, which seemed to be often. Yeah, gorgeous all right and Bodie’s stomach tightened a little at the way his partner’s eyes lit up at the sight. 

They were parked in front of the reporter’s hotel on the High Street watching as she exited the building, chatted briefly to the proprietor of a newspaper stand before buying a paper, and then hailed a taxi. Bodie started the car, did a completely illegal U-turn and they began their tail.

Five hours later and they were both tired and bored. The reporter had led them from Fleet Street to Knightsbridge, then back to Fleet Street. Cowley had been constantly on their backs, demanding to know where they were and what was happening. The fact they had nothing to report, other than one definite contact in Knightsbridge, Gerald Starling, the name gleaned from a chatty receptionist by a persuasive Doyle, hadn’t gone down well. Currently they were again parked outside the hotel in Kensington High Street, the reporter having disappeared inside ten minutes beforehand.

“And I haven’t even had lunch!” Bodie complained as they watched the entrance. 

Doyle cast him a sympathetic glance. “There’s a chippy in the next street, I’ll get us something.”

“Too late.” Bodie started up the car again as the reporter exited the hotel once more and headed off along the street towards the tube station.

“Shit, she’s never getting a tube is she?”

“Looks like it,” Bodie pulled the car to a halt, double parking a hundred metres from Kensington tube station just as the reporter entered the arcade. “Better get your skates on, Sunshine, or you’ll lose her.” Doyle threw him a dirty look as he slid out of the car and hurried across the street.

Entering the station, Doyle was in time to see Nicole walking at a brisk pace past the arcade shops towards the turnstiles to the trains. Ten minutes later they were both on a Circle line train going in a clockwise direction, destination unknown. At least it was to Doyle, squashed into a corner between a bespectacled youth with long greasy hair and a large, middle-aged woman in a hairnet inadequately grasping shopping bags in overladen arms and ample lap. The train had been surprisingly empty when he boarded and he’d chosen a seat conveniently near the door, but with each successive stop it had become more and more packed until all the seats were taken. The reporter, sitting on the same side of the train but several seats away, seemed relaxed and settled in for a long ride.   Nevertheless, Doyle tensed at every station, waiting to see if she would make any move to leave the carriage, but she continued to sit, apparently fascinated with her view out the window of changing light and darkness and black dirt encrusted walls as they sped through tunnels and stations. 

Finally they reached King’s Cross and Doyle tensed again, but again Nicole remained seated, hardly glancing at the throng of people entering the train and crowding into the passage between the seats. Doyle relaxed, just as Nicole sprang to life and pushed through the crowds towards the door. Doyle was a second behind her, taking a step and a half with his usual cat like speed. A second later he was face first in the lap of the greasy youth, his foot lodged firmly in the handle of an errant shopping bag. 

“Ere, mind wot yer doing!” Hair netted woman’s indignant cry rang out over the startled youth’s gasp as Doyle’s nose connected solidly with the zip of his trousers. “Get off me shoppin’ yer clumsy oaf.” Dragging himself upright with an apologetic smile to the now red faced youth, Doyle managed to extricate his foot and stumble to the doors, squeezing through just as they were closing, a cry of, “Ere, you’ve squashed me melons,” ringing in his ears.

Safely on the platform, Doyle scanned the crowds brushing past him in a never-ending rush to wherever it was they were heading. There was no sign of the reporter. In the biggest interchange of the London Underground she could be anywhere. Rubbing his aching nose Doyle reluctantly withdrew his RT from an inside pocket and pressed the button. He didn’t notice the blonde haired figure watching him from the other side of the platform. As he walked towards the exit the woman, apparently satisfied with her evasion techniques, made her way to the Victoria line.

===============

“You what?” Bodie looked at the RT in his hand, hoping it was malfunctioning and what his partner had just said wasn’t what he thought he’d said.

“You heard me. I lost her.”

“Oh, great. How did you manage that?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“You know what Cowley’s going to say don’t you? And you can tell him!”

“Why me?”

“Why d’you think? Because you’re good at it. And you’re the one who lost her! ”

Almost as a divine intervention Cowley’s sharp voice broke into the conversation, cutting off Doyle’s inevitable invective response. “Alpha to 3.7 come in.”

Bodie rolled his eyes but knew he had no choice other than to respond. 

“Progress report 3.7?”

“Yes, well. We sort of lost her, Sir.”

“What do you mean you sort of lost her, Bodie? Either you did or you didn’t. Which is it, man?”

Bodie closed his eyes to ward off the evil aura of an irate Cowley and replied, “Doyle followed her into the tube, Sir. She gave him the slip at King’s Cross.”

There was a significant pause before Cowley came back on the air. “My two best men can’t keep track of one girl.” The sarcasm was palpable and Bodie winced. “But, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised she outwitted you. Go back to her hotel and wait for her to return. When she does return, contact me.” Cowley switched off without further comment.

“You heard the man, Doyle. I’ll pick you up, where are you?”

“On Euston Road, outside the tube entrance, looking like a right prat.”

“Should be easy to spot you, then. 3.7 out.”

===============

Johannes ‘Johnny’ Nkosi checked the documents in front of him. The contents seemed in order and there was no reason they shouldn’t be. Setting them down once again he directed his attention to the small, nondescript white man seated on the opposite side of the desk. He knew he was just being over cautious, but there was something about the man that made him nervous. Perhaps it was his manner, suave and too confident, or the way he constantly used a soft linen handkerchief to wipe at pursed pink lips. Johnny had learnt to trust his instincts, he just wasn’t sure what his instincts were trying to tell him about Craig Roberts.

“Our organisation is very interested in assisting refugees, Mr Nkosi,” Roberts was saying in his impeccable English, lisped through slightly prominent buckteeth. “Particularly South African student exiles, in the way of scholarships and funding for their further education here in UK or in Europe.” 

Before Johnny could respond there was a knock on the door which opened enough for Abel, one of the volunteer staff, to poke his head in, “Sorry, Johnny. There’s someone here to see you, says it’s important.”

Almost glad of the interruption, Johnny nodded his thanks to Abel then turned his attention back to Roberts. “The African National Council will certainly look closely at your proposals, Mr Roberts. We always welcome interest in our Association and ways of helping its disaffected people. There are many of our young people, worthy students, who have been forced to leave their country before finishing their education.” Johnny rose, signalling an end to the interview and Roberts followed suit. “Your scholarship programme sounds most interesting. I will discuss this with my associates and get back to you.” 

“I will be in London for the next few days,” Roberts said as they reached the foyer. But Johnny was no longer really listening, distracted by the first sight of his visitor. The touch of Roberts’ outstretched hand brought him back and he returned the grasp with vague words of farewell.

He didn’t even notice when Roberts left, or the interested gaze the man switched between himself and Nicole, a look of speculation in his eyes. His attention was all for the woman waiting for him.

“ _Sawubona,_ Johnny.”

 _“Ngikhona.”_ Johnny gave the traditional response in a daze, hardly able to believe his eyes. “Nicole is it really you?”

“Of course it is. It’s good to see you, Johnny.”

Johnny lifted his hand hesitantly to touch a finger to Nicole’s brow then dropped it back again, unsure until Nicole stepped forward, taking both his hands into her own. “But … what are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Come, you can tell me all about it,” he said, ushering Nicole towards his office. Turning at the doorway he looked back at his colleagues, all watching the proceedings with avid interest. “Can one of you organise some tea for my guest?” he enquired before closing the door on their startled gazes.

Settled in his office with tea and biscuits that had been delivered by a pretty black girl who couldn’t keep her eyes off Nicole, Johnny took in Nicole’s features again, not really believing she was sitting in front of him. But the evidence was there, smiling at him with the same fresh openness that had always been between them.

“So, what is the Rand Daily Mail’s star reporter doing in London, drinking tea with a known ANC dissident?”

Nicole laughed. “Hardly ‘star’ reporter and I’m drinking tea with an old friend.” Putting her cup down, she became serious. “It’s been eight years, Johnny. What happened after I dropped you by the border? The only news I ever heard was vague reports and rumours. Even your father didn’t seem to know where you were or what was happening. Or he didn’t want to tell me if he did know. It wasn’t until last year I found out you were here in England, with the ANC’s London office.”

Johnny hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “My father knew a little, but he didn’t dare to say anything to anyone. And I couldn’t write, you know that. I was out of their reach, but you weren’t. It wouldn’t have done you or your career much good to be in contact with me.”

Nicole reached over and put her hand over Johnny’s lying motionless on the desk, giving it a small squeeze. “I knew you would only think of me. But I wanted so much to hear from you.” She slid her hand down so their fingers were still touching. “So, tell me now. What happened and how did you get to become a big executive of the ANC?”

Johnny looked down at their nearly joined hands, his so dark against her stark whiteness. “Obviously I made it across the river,” he said with a smile and she grinned in return. “My contact was waiting for me. I moved north with a guerrilla cadre and made it into Angola, then on to Lusaka. I was on the Executive Council there until they decided I could be more useful here in London.” Put baldly like that it all sounded so simple, but Johnny didn’t know how to convey the terror and horror that had been his constant companion on his journey through countries torn apart by bush wars and his years of exile in foreign capitals. Nor did he want to, not yet anyway. 

“What about you, Nicole? I’ve followed your career, but what are you doing here in London?” 

Accepting for the moment his need to change the subject, Nicole told him about her paper’s investigations into the Department of Information and her assignment in London. Johnny listened attentively, torn between pleasure at finding Nicole again and concern at what was happening in his country and what she had become involved in.

“I arrived yesterday,” she finished. “Saw my contact today and have one more meeting with him. I should be leaving for Jo’burg by the beginning of next week.”

“We’d better make the most of it then,” Johnny said. “Dinner tonight? 

“Yes,” Nicole agreed, smiling “And you can tell me some more about the last eight years.”

================

In the bedsit atop the butcher’s shop opposite ANC headquarters a man sat at a window watching through a pair of binoculars. Another man lay stretched out on a rumpled bed propped up against a pillow and smoking a cigarette while thumbing through a copy of Playboy, a stack of similar magazines within easy reach on a bedside table. A News of the World lay open to its centrefold by the end of the bed. Against the far wall of the room a television was switched on, the volume low but sufficient to be heard clearly by the man on the bed, who seemed to be dividing his interest between the naked, or near naked, bodies in the magazine and the current television programme, sniggering at the photos or laughing outright at the cartoons on the television. 

Finally, after a particularly loud chortle, the man by the window lowered his binoculars and focused instead on his companion, “ _Ag_ , man, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll ram that _bladdy_ thing down your throat.”

Unperturbed, the man on the bed turned the magazine around, studying the photo of a statuesque black woman from a different angle, “ _Jislaaik,_ Fanie, you should see the _lekker_ tits on this one, and the rest. The _ou’s_ are going love these when we get back to Jo’burg. ”

Fanie laughed, “You’ll never get those magazines through Customs, man. "

“ _Ja_ , well. All the more reason to enjoy them now, _nê_?”

The ringing of the telephone on the table beside him saved him from any response.

He recognised the clipped British accent immediately. “The okay has been given for tomorrow, you understand what that means?”

“ _Ja_ , of course. Nico has all the equipment together. We’re ready to go.”

“Good. Has there been any unusual activity?”

“No, Nkosi’s followed the same pattern. A girl turned up a while ago though. A white woman, good looking.”

“Yes, I know. She’s a journalist. I want you to follow her when she comes out.”

“What about the surveillance here?”

“I’ve sent Cyril to take your place there. I’m sure Nico can manage if the girl leaves before he gets there. Just you make sure you don’t lose her or she knows she’s being followed. Understand?”

“ _Ja_.”

Fanie replaced the handset thoughtfully. “It’s on for tomorrow, Nico. Better get that gear of yours set up. ”

Nico nodded and with a sigh of reluctance placed the magazine back on the bedside table and headed for a table and chair set against the wall beside the television. Turning off the set in passing he settled down in the chair and, picking up a pair of long nosed pliers, began working with the paraphernalia set out on the table.

Fanie took up the binoculars again and continued his vigil. Cyril arrived ten minutes later and the girl left ANC headquarters two minutes after that.  


  
**PART TWO**   


It was early evening by the time Nicole Goossens returned to her hotel. Bodie had started to think she wasn’t going to return at all until the taxi pulled up in front of the building and the reporter alighted.

He nudged Doyle, who was scrunched up against the passenger side window of the car snoring softly. “Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty, she’s here.”

Doyle sat upright, rubbing at an eye and looking out the window. “’bout time!” he said, reaching for the car’s RT. Cowley answered immediately and told them to maintain surveillance. Doyle replaced the RT thoughtfully while Bodie smouldered. 

“Cowley’s definitely up to something,” Doyle pronounced.

“Yeah, he’s got us sitting around like spare pricks at a wedding. And I’m famished. Haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

“You’ll be fading away soon, you will.”

“Too true, I’m already becoming a mere shadow of my former self,” he griped and Doyle grinned at him.

They bickered good-naturedly for a while longer, taking casual note of the comings and goings from the hotel. Most people were leaving, obviously out for a night’s entertainment, so the African who entered the hotel some time later was an oddity in more ways than one. It was with some surprise they saw him ten minutes later leaving the hotel in company with Nicole Goossens.

“Who’s he?” queried Doyle watching as the pair flagged down a taxi.

Bodie, eying the tall, well dressed black man, hesitated for a moment before saying, “I know him. I’m sure I know him.”

“Yeah? Where from?”

“Don’t know. It’ll come back to me though.”

“Reckon Cowley wants us to follow them?”

“Let’s ask, shall we?” Bodie responded as he started the car, Doyle duly reaching for the RT again.

To their surprise Cowley instructed them to cease surveillance and return to base immediately. 

“Told you, the bastard’s up to something,” Doyle repeated and Bodie had to agree, it wasn’t the first time Cowley had his secrets and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

============

It was late when Bodie made his way to the rest room. Apart from the shuffle of papers and tick of the wall clock the room was in silence. He stood leaning on the doorframe for a few minutes, watching Doyle thumbing through paperwork at the desk, so engrossed in his work he hadn’t noticed Bodie’s arrival. Making the most of the opportunity Bodie let his sight drift over his friend’s slim body encased in tight jeans and dark blue shirt, buttons open half way down his chest, the silver chain around his neck reflecting light from the overhead globe. Doyle’s head was bent slightly, the curls disordered as though he’d been running his hand through them. A small frown of concentration spoilt the line between his eyebrows. Bodie watched, silent and appreciative. It was rare to see his lover so physically still. Such stillness was usual only when he slept; awake Doyle was raw energy challenging everything and everyone in his path. 

Finally Doyle glanced up and saw him, a smile instantly transforming his features and wiping away the frown line. “Where’d you get to?”

Bodie pushed off from the door and headed towards the kettle and cups, “Been checking the files. Knew I recognised that African we saw with the reporter, he’s Johannes Nkosi.” When Doyle still looked at him with a puzzled expression he continued, “Highly placed executive with the African National Council here in London.” 

Doyle whistled silently. “What’s Nicole Goossens doing hanging out with an exiled South African dissident?”

Bodie shrugged, “No accounting for taste I suppose. 

“What, you know something about him?” 

Bodie hesitated for a moment before picking up two cups and turning on the kettle. “I’ve never actually met the man.”

“That’s hasn’t stopped you judging a book by its cover before,” Doyle said, his voice teasing but with a knowing edge. “You told Cowley about this yet?”

“No, not yet. Couldn’t get in to see him. What’s he got you doing? 

Doyle rubbed at his neck. “Checking out all recent arrivals at Heathrow and Gatwick with South African passports, including diplomatic arrivals!   And getting me to do a background check into this Gerald Starling character Nicole met up with.”

“What’s his story then?”

“He’s an ex judge, seems to have connections to a group of apartheid supporters and South African officials. Acts as a press agent and general spokesman for them,” Doyle told him as he rolled his head back and from side to side, trying to get the kinks out of his neck.

“Cowley could be right about Nicole being in danger, if she’s convinced him to talk about his connections?” Bodie said as he placed a cup of tea in front of Doyle. 

“Looks like it. The Nkosi link complicates things and I’d still like to know why we’re getting so involved. Hmm...” - the last as Bodie moved around to the back of his chair and started massaging his shoulders. “That’s good,” he almost purred as Bodie moved expert hands over him, attacking the tightness of Doyle’s neck and shoulders. 

Bodie kept it up for a few minutes, gradually feeling the muscles relax, then bending slightly he nuzzled into the side Doyle’s neck, kissing and nipping gently. Doyle’s murmurs of appreciation grew and Bodie slid his hands down, under the open neck of the shirt to stroke over chest and nipples, running his fingers through the hair there while keeping up the assault on Doyle’s neck with his mouth, nibbling on an ear lobe until Doyle was in danger of slowly melting off the chair. Bodie was feeling decidedly hot and constrained himself.

“Oh, god, Bodie …you’d better stop.”

“Do you want me to?”

“No. But …”

Doyle’s words were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of footsteps and raucous voices disturbing the quiet atmosphere of the rest room.

“Shit,” Bodie muttered, jerking his hands away as Doyle quickly pulled himself upright. Bodie just managed some necessary adjustments to himself when the door to the rest room was opened and Murphy, Jax and Mitchell crowded into the room in a loud untidy knot. Jax headed for the shower while Murphy and Mitchell threw themselves down on the couches.   Murphy, rubbing his hands together, looked at Bodie standing now by the bench. 

“Got the kettle on have you, Bodie, good lad! How’s about a cuppa?” he said, mouth gaping in surprise when Bodie obligingly turned towards the cups and the tea. Mitchell, not paying much attention to the chatter, settled a paper bag on the coffee table in front of him and started unpacking food containers.

“So, what have you two been up to?” Murphy enquired.

Bodie just managed to stop the kettle falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Doyle’s head came up so fast he nearly put his neck out.

“No-noth-thing,” Bodie stuttered at the same time as Doyle’s “Um, just some, er, obs.”

“Yeah,” Bodie managed, grabbing hold of Doyle’s lifeline. “Just obs on some, um, South African bird.”

“Yeah, a South African … reporter,” Doyle supplied. “Nice looking.” Bodie made the mistake of looking at his partner. He was rumpled, flushed and sexy as hell.

“A right raver,” Bodie agreed as Doyle looked back and their eyes met, making Bodie’s heat rise again.

Murphy gave them both an odd look and Bodie tried distracting him by handing him his tea, to no avail.

“So what’s this nice looking raver of a reporter been doing to gain the attention of CI5?” he wanted to know.

“Um, not sure,” Bodie told him. “Something to do with South African politics.”

“Yeah, Cowley’s got us involved. Didn’t tell us why.” Doyle’s head was down again and he was scribbling furiously.

“You two got odds going on who can score with her, then?”

“No,” they both said at once, too loudly, and Bodie knew they needed to shift Murphy’s attention, and his inquisitive eye, away from them, fast. Desperate, he looked for a likely distraction and found Mitchell, a new recruit still unused to the ways of CI5 and Agent 3.7 in particular.

“Nice bit of curry you’ve got there, mate. Where’d you get it?”

Mitchell, a forkful of the contents of his container poised in front of his lips, swallowed the last of what was already in his mouth and looked across at Bodie. “The take away just down the road from here, the New Delhi.”

“Oh,” was all Bodie said.

“Why?”

“Just wondering.” Bodie turned back to Doyle. “Reckon he’s up to his old tricks again?”

“Who, Raj? Could be,” Doyle’s face was deadpan

“What? Who? What tricks?” The fork was still in Mitchell’s hand but his attention was focused on the two agents. They both ignored him.

“Not a lot of moggies around lately.”

“I noticed. In fact Anson was just saying the other day that pair that used to hang out by the Delhi had disappeared.”

“Hey … who’s Raj? You saying something’s up with the meat they use in the Delhi?” Mitchell’s voice had gone up an octave and the fork was wavering slightly.

“Not saying a thing, mate,” Bodie informed him. “And it’s all just rumours anyway.”

“Yeah, despite that incident last week,” Doyle added.

“What incident?” Mitchell demanded, turning to Murphy for enlightenment.

“Don’t worry. The lab never proved anything, even with the analysis,” Murphy supplied, adding, “Not enough left apparently.”

Mitchell stared at his fully laden fork for a moment, before carefully depositing it back in the container. “You are not saying this curry is made from cat meat are you?” he asked slowly, stirring the fork around in the curry obviously seeking evidence. His face was slightly pale.

“Nah! I wouldn’t say anything like that, would I, Doyle? 

“’Course not,” Doyle confirmed. “That’s libel that is.”

“Think you mean slander,” Murphy corrected.

Just then Jax came out from the shower, towel around his waist, rubbing at his hair. “You get that lot from the Delhi belly did you, Mitchell? Takin’ a chance aren’t you?”

Bodie began to sing quietly, slightly off key,

“Pussy cat, pussy cat you’re delicious,”

“And so nutritious,” added Doyle.

Mitchell bolted and the agents collapsed, helpless with laughter. Jax, looking perplexed, regarded them for a moment before asking, “What’d I say?”

“’s all right Jax, just Bodie being an arse as usual,” said Doyle, his eyes shining.

 Hey, you and Murphy helped!” Bodie was all injured innocence. 

 At that moment the door to the rest room opened and Mary popped her head in. “Bodie. Mr Cowley’s ready to see you.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Grudgingly Bodie got to his feet and, leaving the other two to enlighten Jax, headed towards Cowley’s office with his report. When he’d finished Cowley looked at him questioningly.

“And you’re sure it was Johannes Nkosi?”

“Yeah, first saw him a long time ago, in Angola. He was on the other side. I’m not likely to forget.” Bodie’s tone was laconic, his previously buoyant mood buried slightly now in memories.

 

“You must both have been very young.” Cowley’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

“I suppose we were,” Bodie agreed then, moving away from the subject, continued, “Do you want us to carry on with the surveillance tomorrow?”

“No.” Cowley accepted Bodie’s reticence. “Go on home laddie. It’s been a long day.”

“It has indeed,” Bodie agreed.

Returning to the rec room he found it deserted, apart from Murphy who was contentedly chowing out on the curry. 

“Where’s Doyle?”

“Finished off the work Cowley wanted, said he was knackered and headed off home. Said to tell you he’d see you in the morning.” Holding up a near empty container he added, “Want some?”

“Nah, lost me appetite.” And feeling deserted, slightly melancholy and wishing Doyle had waited for him, wishing they were more to each other than the casual fuck his partner seemed to consider they were, Bodie headed for home himself.

===============

Dinner was in a quiet restaurant in Soho specialising in South African cuisine, because that’s what Johnny thought would make Nicole feel at home. They dined on imported ostrich meat fillets served with _mielie_ _pap_ and rich, thick gravy, followed by malva pudding washed down with Van Der Hum liqueur and coffee. Nicole was laughing in the carefree manner she always had, recalling childhood incidents and the scrapes they had got into.

“Remember the time we decided we were going to build a raft and float down the Limpopo? Just like Huckleberry Finn on the Mississippi?”

“Ah, yes. At the expense of the main supports for _Tannie_ Lucile’s chicken coop, if I remember correctly.”

Nicole laughed again, “ _Ja_ , I’ll never forget her chasing after us, waving her _knobkerrie_ , chickens running in circles around her feet, shouting she was going to _donner_ us good.” 

“Your parents weren’t happy. The hens didn’t lay for days after that.”

“Neither was your father,” Nicole grinned

Johnny returned the grin. “No, he wasn’t. It was a while before I could sit down again, and I was herding cattle for a week after as well. ” It all came back, in a flood of memories. The farm they had both grown up on in Northern Transvaal, owned by her parents and where his own father was their trusted and respected headman. And _Tannie_ Lucile who came from KwaZulu to help look after him when his mother had died and ended up looking after both of them more often than not, because they were inseparable. Or maybe because that was the nature of things inside the small enclave where black and white didn’t have the same meaning it did on the outside.

Watching her now in the glow of candlelight he could almost believe they were back in time, to the days when two children played together in innocence, unaware of any concepts of separateness. Later when reality intruded they still believed youthful idealism could win out against decades of ingrained superiority. He wasn’t sure what fates had conspired to bring them together again now, even if it was only for a brief time, but he was grateful for these few precious minutes and memories.

“He misses you, Johnny. We all miss you.” Nicole said, catching his thoughts perhaps, as she had always done.

“I miss them and home,” he told her. “I miss the warmth and beauty, the endless sky. It’s been so long.” 

They were both silent for a moment. “Do you really think what you and your newspaper are delving into will change anything there?” he asked.

“Maybe not now. But the Government has to be held accountable, Johnny. The Info Department is misusing funds at the very least and they’re using those funds to try and misrepresent apartheid to the world. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’re convinced the corruption goes as high as Vorster. If we can bring all this out, show the South African people and the world what they are doing, then perhaps the time of change will come sooner.”

“And in the meantime? Nicole, you know the chances of getting anything like this published in South Africa are minimal at best, the paper would be shut down before the Government would allow it. And how many publishers have been banned or imprisoned for less than what you’re planning to expose?”

“Too many,” Nicole admitted. “But we can’t let it stop us, Johnny. You see that, don’t you?”

Johnny shook his head. Nicole had always been passionate in her beliefs, thrown herself into things wholeheartedly without fear of the consequences. He hoped she knew what she was getting into this time and that it would be worth it.

“I don’t like it, Nicole. The risks are too great and the benefits probably too small. But, I’ve never been able to talk you out of anything, have I?”

“No,” she grinned. “Don’t worry so! I’m perfectly safe. This is London, not Johannesburg. Nothing will happen to me here.”

But Johnny wasn’t so sure. The restaurant hadn’t been full when they arrived but conversation had momentarily ceased as they took their table and Johnny guessed the clientele was mainly South African expatriates or holidaymakers. The service had been impeccable, the waiters professional but distant. He was used to being invisible in such white society; being highly visible was a little more uncomfortable and he wondered if the same white society would ever be prepared for the time of change they were both fighting for. 

===============

Fanie Van Rensburg ate his _boerewors_ with relish, watched the couple sitting at the corner table with distaste and wished he were back in South Africa, where _kaffirs_ knew their place. He didn’t mind being in London, or Brussels or any of the other myriad of places he’d been sent by his boss, it was nice to travel, good to see how other people lived. And he didn’t mind the jobs he was sent to do; it was all for the good of his country after all. He did resent watching an uppity black with his white _hoer_. Still, the food was good. 

While the couple he was watching enjoyed their coffees and liqueur, Fanie made his way to the back of the restaurant. The public phone he needed was in sight of the main eating area; he could make his call and still keep his watch on the couple. The call was brief and to the point.

“I’m at Sadie’s in Soho. The reporter’s having dinner. Got the _bladdy_ _kaffir_ , Nkosi, with her!”

“Of course she has. No other contacts made?”

“No.”

“Good. Is everything set for tomorrow? 

“ _Ja_ , Nico was working on it when I left. You want me to keep watching the girl?”

“No. I doubt she’s going far. Head back to base, it’s more important you oversee the operation and make sure it goes ahead as scheduled. Keep me posted.”

Anxious to leave and get back to his men, Fanie wasted no time paying his bill and leaving the restaurant, throwing a last slightly contemptuous look towards Nkosi and the reporter as he walked out. He doubted they even noticed him.

===============

It seemed natural that Johnny should accompany Nicole back to her hotel room after dinner and even more natural she should invite him in. When she took his hands and said the simple word “stay” he knew that was inevitable too. But it didn’t make it right, or wise.

Nicole knew what he was thinking, as she had always done.  Drawing his hand to her lips she kissed the knuckles. “Johnny, I love you. This was always meant for us.”

“And where is it going to lead, Nicole? Where can it lead? Us … together is illegal in our own country.”

“But this is England, Johnny. It’s not illegal here.”

Johnny drew his hand away and turned to look through the window of the room, at the bright lights of a London night. “Here, now is a differnt world, Nicole. But it’s not our world. What happens afterwards, when you go home? What then?   We’ll be apart not just by the colour of our skins but continents and Governments too.”

“It will change, Johnny, I know it will. South Africa has a future, we have a future. I truly believe that.” 

“Your idealism is showing. We’re not children any more, living in a fantasy world. This is our reality - laws against us and unacceptance.”

Nicole moved to stand beside him “What happened to you, Johnny? You had as much hope as I did once.”

How to explain to her the changes wrought by blood, death and outright war, the years of exile?

“I don’t know, Nicole. Too much to explain in one night, or perhaps even one lifetime. I do know I want more for us than just what we can steal for ourselves now,” He turned suddenly and pulled her to him, holding her close and feeling her soft hair on his face. “I do want us to have a future together, be together. It’s what has helped me stay sane at times, thinking about you and home. But somehow that seems unreal, too much for us to dare. So, I’m afraid to.”

“Then today we will dare to take what we can get, make it ours. We deserve that much. Tomorrow can take care of itself.” 

She slid her hand to the back of his head and Johnny allowed her to pull his head down so their lips met. He deepened the kiss and she responded. He was so afraid for her, for them both, but she was right, they deserved this much.

================ 

Much later Johnny was again looking out of the hotel window, smoking a cigarette and watching London slowly coming to life again in the early morning light. Behind him Nicole slept on in the hotel room’s double bed. 

His thoughts were chaotic, confused. He wanted so much to believe in Nicole’s vision of the future but he was at heart a pragmatist. Change in their country would come, it was what he was fighting for after all, but it might not come in their lifetime. Even if he asked Nicole to stay in London with him, in exile, in their narrow world a union between them would be looked on with as much disfavour by his people as by hers. And he would never ask her to give up so much for him. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

The sudden interruption to his thoughts made Johnny start. Nicole was standing beside him, the sunrise casting strange shadows over her face and figure. She seemed ethereal for a moment, otherworldly. Then she moved closer, into the emerging sunlight and the mirage dissipated leaving her his Nicole again.

“I don’t very often,” he said. “Sometimes it helps though.”

“It does?” She took the cigarette from his fingers and drew deeply on the filter tip before handing it back again. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe, after this investigation, when we have enough against the ringleaders in the Department of Information and can publish – when it’s all over – I can get a job on one of the papers here in London.”

“You’d do that, for me?”

Nicole smiled. “Of course. And it wouldn’t be forever, just until we can both go back home.”

Johnny laughed and throwing the cigarette out of the open window, pulled her into his arms. “You won’t ever give up will you?” 

“No. And neither will you,” she told him. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

 

 **PART THREE**

 **  
**

 

The call came as they were headed into Headquarters, Bodie having picked Doyle up from his flat. It was Cowley, tense and to the point.

”There’s been a suspicious object report from ANC Headquarters in Angel; it was found by a cleaner a few minutes ago. I want you and Bodie to check it out, now.”

“What kind of suspicious object, Sir?” Doyle responded.

“If I knew what it was I wouldn’t be asking you to check it out, would I, Doyle?” Cowley was sounding vexed so Doyle didn’t push his luck.

“Right. On our way, Sir. 4.5 out,” he said, switching the RT off just as Bodie did a tyre screeching turn down a side street that would send them in the direction of Islington.

“Co-incidence?” Bodie said as he wove in and out of traffic.

“What? You mean Nicole Goossens, Johannes Nkosi, the African national Congress and now a ‘suspicious object’? And why call us and not the bomb squad? No, I think not.” Dropping his tone slightly he carried on. “There is more to this than meets the eye, Watson.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Holmes,” Bodie responded

Unsurprisingly, Nicole Goossens was the first person to greet them as they hurried into the two-story building in Pattern Street that housed the ANC offices.

“Oh, you again,” were her first words on sighting Doyle. “I was right. You do work for Uncle George.”

Bodie looked at Doyle and quirking his eyebrow silently mouthed, “Uncle George?” Doyle shrugged a response before turning his attention back to the reporter.

“If you mean George Cowley, then yes. I’m Doyle, he’s Bodie.” They flashed their ID cards and Ray took the opportunity to add, “We didn’t realise you and Mr Cowley were related, Miss Goossens.”

“We’re not. And, please, call me Nicole,” she told them absently as she escorted them past anxious employees towards the rear of the building. “My father and George Cowley were in the same unit during the war. I’ve known Uncle George since I was a child.”

“Oh, right. That explains a lot,” Doyle said, giving Bodie a meaningful look. “Perhaps you’d better show us this object, Nicole.”

It was a suitcase, pushed in well behind a filing cabinet in Nkosi’s office. The cleaner was new and very diligent. He’d noticed the cabinet was sitting further out from the wall than it should and after unsuccessfully trying to push it back into place had investigated why the cabinet refused to cooperate.

Now the cabinet was across the room and Johannes Nkosi was studying the case with cautious interest. It was an ordinary brown case, similar to something once used by school children and about the same size. In fact Bodie thought that was exactly what it was, a school bag.

“Could be something,” Doyle suggested

“Could be nothing,” Bodie answered.   “Maybe someone just forgot to take it home with them.” 

“What? After shoving it behind a filing cabinet?” Doyle was decidedly sceptical. Turning to Nkosi he said, “And you’ve never seen it before?”

“No. It wasn’t there yesterday. I’m sure of it,” Johnny told him.

“Okay, why don’t you clear out the building, just in case,” Bodie suggested to Doyle. “Take Mr Nkosi and Nicole with you. I’ll see if I can get a better look.”

“Bodie!”

“Promise I won’t touch. Go on, Sunshine, we need to get everyone clear.”

Doyle gave him a long look until Bodie started making shooing gestures. He turned to the couple in the doorway and nodded. Both Johnny and Nicole started out, Johnny giving orders for everyone to evacuate the building. 

Doyle turned to Bodie before following Johnny, “Just you make sure you wait. I’ll be back.”

As soon as everyone had left Bodie started checking out the visible areas of the suitcase. He’d promised Ray he’d be careful but they needed to know what the threat was, if it was a threat. There were no visible wires on the outside of the case and the locks were ordinary flip up toggles so they shouldn’t be booby-trapped.   Hunching down beside the case he held his breath and gingerly lifted the toggles. Nothing. With the locks loosened he checked the outer edges of the lid and again found no evidence of wires. 

As gingerly as he had opened the locks he lifted the lid of the case and saw the explosive and the clock face. He didn’t need to check with his watch to know he’d run out of time. The movement to turn and scream, “out!” to the startled Doyle coming back through the door was the quickest he’d made in his life. 

===============

The sound of the explosion was deafening but Bodie thought he heard a wailing scream just after it hit. It might have been Nicole or it might have been him. Then everything went black.

When he opened his eyes seconds (minutes, hours, he wasn’t sure) later he was sitting propped up against the wall outside what had been Johnny Nkosi’s office and Doyle was in his face, his mouth opening and closing at a furious rate. He was talking, shouting maybe, what seemed to be his name and something else Bodie was sure wasn’t complementary, but he couldn’t make it out over the other sound.

“What, can’t hear you, Mate. ‘Cause of the bells,” he shouted back. At least he thought he shouted but he couldn’t hear his own voice either.

Doyle drew back slightly, a puzzled look on his face and Bodie knew by the shape of his mouth and lips what he said. “Bells? What bleeding Bells?”

“The ones ringin’ in me ears.” He knew the next word his partner uttered as well, more by instinct than anything else.

“Pillock!” But the hands were gentle as they ran quickly but efficiently over his body then pulled his head down for a close inspection before releasing him. The green eyes that searched his face were gentle too and full of concern.

Taking his own stock Bodie realised that, miraculously, everything seemed to be functioning, apart from his hearing and the headache that was pounding at his skull. “I’m okay, Ray. Honest. Just can’t hear anything. 

Doyle’s mouth quirked a little and smiled as he lifted his thumb to swipe at a streak of dirt on Bodie’s cheek. But then the smile faded and a frown replaced it. “You’ve got an egg on the back of your head the size of a small golf ball, your hair’s singed and your jacket’s got scorch marks. And you’re okay! Told you to wait didn’t I? But no, you had to go ahead and play bomb disposal all on your own.”

Things were improving because Bodie heard most of what Ray was saying through the persistent buzzing in his head. Wisely, he didn’t bother interrupting to mention that if he hadn’t opened the suitcase he wouldn’t have known the bomb was there and consequently they both might have got the full blast. At last Doyle ran dry and Bodie, who’d been checking the back of his head tentatively, wincing when his fingers found the damage, managed to get a word in, “Did you say me hair’s singed. How bad is it? It’s not burnt off is it?”

Doyle just shook his head and with a sigh turned to survey the damage wrought by the explosion. 

Johannes Nkosi’s office was a jumbled tangle of wooden beams and broken furniture, one wall having been blown out entirely, spilling debris into the passage. Dust and smoke swirled through the air. 

More bells started to jangle through Bodie’s head but they were genuine this time, the sounds of ambulance and police sirens and he realised he must have been out of it long enough for the troops to arrive. 

“Here, help me up,” he said, holding out a hand to his partner. Doyle gripped tightly and hauled him up, putting a steadying arm around his waist as Bodie staggered slightly.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, just a little wobbly. Anyone hurt?” Bodie asked

“Nah, got them all out before the shit hit the fan,” Doyle told him just as they both saw Johannes Nkosi hurrying towards them through the still drifting smoke and dust.

“Is he all right?” Nkosi rushed in to help support Bodie. 

“Yeah, just a bit unsteady on his pins,” Doyle told him, before Bodie had a chance to answer. 

“Better get him outside. The ambulance and fire services have arrived.” Nkosi said

Pulling away from Doyle and brushing off Nkosi’s helping hand Bodie straightened. “I am perfectly fine and quite capable of speaking for myself,” he said with dignity.

Johnny shrugged and stepped back. Doyle frowned but kept his mouth firmly closed as they made their way carefully through the broken beams and debris to the undamaged reception area. By the time they arrived so had Cowley, coming in through the front door followed by Phillips, their explosives expert.

“Let me know what you find, Phillips, as soon as you find it.” Cowley was in full stride, stopping only to glare at Bodie and comment. “Good heavens man, are you all right?” Bodie rolled his eyes at yet another enquiry into his general health but before he could reply Cowley carried on. 

“Get seen to by the paramedics and then I want the two of you back at HQ. Mr Nkosi, I presume? Perhaps you’d care to come with me a moment, there are some questions I’d like to ask you.” Without a backward glance at his men the Scottish dervish that was George Cowley swept through the clearing dust, Phillips and a bemused Johnny Nkosi trailing in his wake.

“Yes, Sir,” said Doyle to the retreating back before turning to Bodie. “Come on, let’s get you sorted.”

“Don’t need sorting,” Bodie said with a petulant twist to his lips. “Told you, I’m okay.” 

Doyle, finally giving in to his exasperation, turned on his partner with a snarl. “For once in your life, you stubborn bastard, just do as you’re damn well told!” and before a startled Bodie could respond he found himself being dragged outside to the waiting ambulance.

============== 

By the time the paramedics had finished with Bodie and cautioned a watch for any signs of concussion and sent them on their way with their blessings and painkillers for Bodie’s headache Cowley had left. Phillips continued to shift through the debris muttering about timing mechanisms and C2 while Nkosi was busy reassuring his staff. Of Nicole Goossens there was no sign. 

The drive back to Headquarters was a mostly silent affair with Doyle giving monosyllabic responses to Bodie’s comments until he decided to give up and let Doyle get on with his foul mood on his own. 

It was not a surprise, when they reported in, to find Nicole in Cowley’s office, seated at his desk, both of them apparently deep in conversation.

The atmosphere in the office was strained, despite the glasses of whisky set on the desk. Bodie looked pointedly at the glasses as he and Doyle took up position, but Cowley chose to ignore him, asking instead, “I assume both of you are now aware Miss Goossens and I are acquainted?” Without waiting for a response he continued, “Nicole is just about to tell me what her newspaper has uncovered that would cause an attempt on her life.”

“You know the bomb was most likely meant for Johannes Nkosi, not me, Uncle George. There is no reason to think anyone even knew I would be there.” Her tone was reasoning, and Bodie guessed this was an old argument between his boss and the reporter.

 “That may well be, Nicole. But at the moment we have no evidence as to who planted the bomb or whom it was intended for. Perhaps you could tell us exactly why you _were_ there? What’s the connection? What information would Nkosi have that would be of interest to you or your newspaper?”

“None. You don’t remember him do you, Uncle George? Johannes Nkosi is Petrus’ son.” 

“Petrus, your father’s headman? He’s young Johnny?” At Nicole’s nod Cowley sat back in his chair, his surprise evident. “Of course! I remember your father telling me he had run afoul of the Government and left but I never heard any more about it, or him. I never made the connection to Johannes Nkosi and he didn’t say anything when I spoke to him.” He looked chagrined by this admission of fallacy on his part.

“There’s no reason you should, it’s a long way from a farm near Zeerust to the ANC in London. And he wouldn’t have mentioned it, you know how reclusive he could be at times.” Nicole turned to Bodie and Doyle. “Johnny and I grew up together on my parents’ farm in Northern Transvaal. I knew he was here, in London, in the ANC so I looked him up.”

“And that’s where you went after I lost you at King’s Cross?” Doyle asked.

“Yes. I’d approached my contact here in London earlier. But you already know that,” she said with a slight smile. Doyle grinned back at her. “I was free after that and I didn’t particularly want your company,” she told him, almost apologetically.

“I had you followed for a reason, Nicole,” Cowley interrupted. “Suppose you tell us what exactly it is you and your newspaper are after, what you’ve uncovered.

She nodded and paused, seeming to collect her thoughts.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you much about the stranglehold the National Party and John Vorster as Prime Minister have had on South African politics for decades?” She stopped for a moment as the three men confirmed her assumption, then carried on. “But perhaps what you don’t realise is just how much the Government and Vorster are held in awe by most of the country and the sense of security, the belief within the Government that it is unassailable, this stranglehold gives them.

“Some months ago one of the paper’s contacts put us in touch with a man, a civil servant, who had a story to tell about corruption in high places and that a lot of money was involved, money that could be linked to the Department of Information. That man was our first contact. Since then there have been more. What the paper is trying to uncover is the extent of the corruption.”

“And that’s where Starling comes in?” Doyle asked.

“Yes, he’s the Department’s front here and in Europe, their spokesman for apartheid propaganda, the one who’s been negotiating for the purchase of foreign owned newspapers and bribery of Government officials. He knows where the money is coming from, who’s involved and he’s willing to co-operate, give us documentary evidence on the Department’s activities. Fortunately for us he appears to have become disenchanted with the concepts of apartheid.”

“And the bird has begun to sing,” Bodie put in with a grin. 

Nicole agreed. “This bird has the power to help bring down Vorster’s Government if we can prove the extent of his connection to the Department’s activities. It’s almost certain their funds have been syphoned through the Defence budget, illegally.”

“Which is precisely why what you’re doing is so dangerous, Nicole,” Cowley interrupted. “It’s already known by CI5, and MI6 that the Department of Information is very closely associated with South Africa’s Bureau of State Security. If they are aware of your investigations and Starlings’ defection they may have decided to take action.”

Nicole regarded her adopted uncle closely for a moment. “So, you think BOSS may have initiated the bomb attack?”

“I think it’s highly likely they’re behind it. BOSS has already been responsible for several bombings and assassinations involving ANC personnel. The question is still, was it you they were targeting or Johannes Nkosi?” Turning to Doyle he asked, “Did Phillips have any information on the device?” 

“C2 probably, on a timer, which we knew already,” Doyle answered, looking pointedly at Bodie, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. 

“Well, they’ve tried once, whoever ‘they’ are, and there’s no reason to think they won’t try again.” Cowley suddenly seemed to notice the dusty and dishevelled condition of his agents for the first time. “Good heavens, you two are a mess! Go home, get some rest. I’ll discus further security arrangements with Nicole and see to her immediate safety and inform you of your duties tomorrow.”

Bodie was only too pleased to comply. He felt tired, dirty and disgruntled. 

 Nicole rose from her chair as they prepared to leave. “Thank you for today, Bodie. We could all have been killed, you were very brave to do what you did.”

Bodie preened a little and tried his most captivating smile. “All part of the job,” he told her.

“Exactly,” Cowley cut in. “And no less than I would expect from any of my men.”

Doyle just scowled and headed to the door with a cursory goodbye to both Cowley and Nicole. After another exchange of smiles with Nicole and a nod to Cowley Bodie followed him.

===============

“Where we headed?” Bodie dared to ask as he hurried after his partner.

Doyle was making a beeline for his own car, left in the car pool all day as Doyle had preferred to use Bodie’s car, and trust to Bodie’s driving.

“My place. Get in,” was all his partner offered and Bodie obediently deposited himself in the passenger seat of Doyle’s Ford Escort.

The drive to Doyle’s flat was just as silent as the drive to CI5 had been earlier and Bodie couldn’t make out what was annoying his partner so intently. Any hope of talking things out or even the prospect of a little physical activity were flying rapidly out the window and Bodie was starting to wish he’d gone back to his own place and left Ray to his brooding. He just hoped he’d at least feed him.

Doyle headed towards the kitchen as soon as they hit the flat. Bodie followed more slowly, taking time to pick the discarded jacket up from the couch where his partner had carelessly tossed it in passing. Taking off his own jacket he examined the scorch mark, shaking his head sadly, before carefully arranged both over the back of a chair.

Doyle was leaning on the kitchen sink, staring out the window, pensive and silent, an open bottle of whisky on the bench and a full glass in his hand, another set next to the bottle.

“What’s the matter?” Bodie moved to stand behind him, not touching but near enough to bring his lips close to his mate’s ear for the quiet words.

“Things were rough out there today, close. A few seconds sooner and we’d have been sweeping’ you up off the floor right now.” Doyle took a full swig from the glass and Bodie watched the movements of his throat as the he swallowed the liquid. Reaching around his partner he picked up the other glass and took his own swig before putting it down again, breath catching slightly at the flowing burn of the spirits.

“Is that what’s been getting to you? Could have been you in the way, could have been either of us, then or any other time. Comes with the territory, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, doesn’t it just.” Relaxing, Doyle let his body fall back against his partner’s solid bulk and Bodie gratefully received it, moving his arms to wrap around the slim waist.

“You know the trouble with you, Doyle?” Doyle didn’t answer, just snuggled a little deeper into Bodie’s depths. “Take everything to heart you do. A simple little bomb in a dissident’s office and you think the world’s comin’ to an end.”

Bodie felt more than heard the soft chuckle as Ray deposited his own glass next to Bodie’s before turning in his arms to look at him. “You stayin’ the night?”

“You want me to?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do. Need you, mate. Always.”

Bodie’s breath caught at the simple admission and all it might mean. But he wouldn’t question it - not now, not yet. Instead he bent his head to touch his mouth to those inviting lips. Ray’s mouth opened in response and his tongue licked at Bodie’s lips until he opened up and let him inside. Ray was gentle at first, almost tentative but that quickly changed to a rough possession, tongue and mouth demanding, insistent. Taken by surprise Bodie stepped back a pace and Ray took advantage, pushing and manoeuvring him backwards towards the bedroom, pausing only to allow them both a quick breath before continuing the assault. Backing Bodie up to the edge of the bed he allowed them both to fall, landing on the soft mattress, Ray on top and straddling Bodie’s hips.

“Whoa, Ray. Slow down.”

“Shut up!” Doyle’s voice was quiet, almost gentle, belying his words and manner as he ruthlessly tore at Bodie’s clothes, ripping open his shirt and pulling it off then reaching for the belt and zip on his cords. The pants were yanked down and off his body in seconds, along with shoes, socks and underpants - all thrown over Doyle’s shoulders to land in untidy heaps on the bedroom floor. Doyle’s clothes were next, gone in the same quick fashion until they were both naked and Doyle was on top again, pinning Bodie’s arms above his head while he once again attacked the already swollen mouth with his own. Bodie, stunned by the ferocity of Doyle’s actions and effectively pinned beneath the hard body, could do nothing but allow him his way.

Doyle drew back slightly and looked down at him. “Mine,” he announced and proceeded to prove his point, moving his mouth to Bodie’s neck, nipping and sucking hard, then tonguing over the tingling bite before moving to another expanse of skin to repeat the same stinging kiss. Bodie gasped at the pull and burn of his mouth, feeling the sensations all the way down to his groin. Releasing Bodie’s wrists Doyle moved further down his body continuing the assault on the skin of chest and stomach, hands moving possessively over the body writhing beneath him.

When Doyle reached his hips and, ignoring the erect, leaking cock, headed for the soft skin of inner thigh Bodie groaned and wrapped his hands in Doyle’s hair trying to steer his head in the right direction. But Ray was having none of it. Moving back up to Bodie’s mouth he kissed him roughly and hissed, “Be still!” against his lips. Bodie obeyed.

Then he was back, crouched between Bodie’s legs marking first one thigh and then the other in the same way he’d marked the rest of his body. Finally holding Bodie’s hips firmly in place he planted one last sucking kiss on his groin, just above the line of pubic hair, before sitting back slightly to grin up at his partner 

Bodie, looking back at him caught sight of the dark marks scattered over his body. “Shit, Ray,” he gasped, staring into those feral green eyes, “what’d you do that for? I’m not going to be able to shower at HQ for days.”

“I know,” Ray’s grin became even more feral and completely unrepentant. Leaning forward again he licked from the base of Bodie’s cock to the tip, pausing to swirl his tongue around the slit and lap at the fluid there, before dipping down to encase Bodie in hot wet heat. Bodie fell back onto the pillow, unable to stop his whimper, or his instinctive thrust up into that velvet mouth. Doyle sucked and pulled and used his hands to massage and caress, gently squeezing and rolling Bodie’s testicles and stroking over his opening before deftly probing with one finger, then another.   Just as Bodie thought he couldn’t hold back any longer, that he would explode into Ray’s mouth, his lover released him to turn him over onto his stomach. The oil Ray used was sweet smelling, fragrant as, while continuing to caress and massage, his fingers opened him completely, then he was filled by Ray’s hardness. They moved together, giving and taking, Ray’s earlier aggressiveness gone, replaced by an urgency that was both tender and electrifying.

They came almost as one, Doyle shuddering to climax first, Bodie following, whispering his secret to himself as Ray pulled on his cock to bring the final release. 

Sated, exhausted they lay together, the world around them quiet and peaceful, their ragged breathing the only sound. Bodie found he couldn’t have moved if he wanted to and barely had the strength to utter a small complaint as Doyle lifted away and moved off the bed. He felt the warmth of a damp clothing cleaning him, and the dip of the bed again as Doyle returned and wrapped him tightly in his arms. Then he slept.

==============

When Bodie woke it was to the sensation of warm air tickling his cheek. He murmured and brushed absently at the irritation. It stopped immediately. He was just drifting off again when the shaft of air returned, this time attacking his earlobe. He muttered and tried to move his head out of range but the sensation followed him, persistent and annoying. Reluctantly he opened one eye and discovered two bright green eyes staring at him.

“You awake?” Doyle was propped up on one elbow, face inches from his own.

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Doyle shook his head, “Nah! 

Still fuzzy with sleep and wondering why his partner had been blowing in his ear Bodie managed to open his other eye. “Why not?”

“’Cause you lie all the time.”

“No I don’t,” Bodie denied, then thought about it for a second. “Like when?”

“Like when you told me you were goin’ to the match with Jax, only you’d hooked up with that bird I fancied.”

“Ah, yes. The fair Fiona, I remember her well.”

“And the time …”

 “Yeah, okay, you’ve made your point,” Bodie interrupted. But Doyle leaned over and placed a finger on his lips to silence him.

“And when you said, ‘I love you’.”

Bodie’s heart stopped beating for a second but it felt like minutes. “When did I say that?” he whispered as the finger began to trace the outline of his lips.

“Last night, just as I was coming inside you. Remember?”

He did, but he’d hoped, after the words were out and couldn’t be recalled, that Ray hadn’t heard, it had only been a whisper after all, a notion to be kept to himself. He took a breath and felt his heart pounding now, probably catching up on those few lost beats. “I wasn’t lying,” he finally admitted.

Ray studied him for a moment and for once Bodie couldn’t read him like he usually could, his expression shuttered to him.

“Right, we’d better talk, hadn’t we? Get a few things sorted out.” If Ray was keeping his feelings closed to him, Bodie’s must have been all too obvious because Ray seemed to sense his apprehension. “But first …”

Bodie’s heartbeat didn’t have a chance of slowing down as Ray kissed him, open mouthed and hungry, demanding a response Bodie was only too pleased to give. Finally they broke apart, gasping slightly, gazing at each other with new understanding.

“What are we going to tell Cowley?” was all he needed to say.

“That we’re together. That there’s nothing he can do about it short of firing us both. That it doesn’t make a difference to the way we work together.”

“You know it’s not going to be that simple, Ray.”

“Why not? Homosexuality’s not against the law any more you know.”

Sensing one of Doyle’s self-righteous paddies coming on Bodie tried a reasoning tone. “No, but it’s not accepted either,” adding in an exaggerated accent, “especially not in the Civil Service, old man,” and was rewarded with Doyle’s sexy grin.

“Yeah, but Cowley will cover for us, rather than lose his best team. And we are his best team after all.”

“True,” Bodie admitted. “And everyone else?”

“Not their business,” Ray looked up to glance around at the restrictive bedroom with its one small wardrobe. “I fancy a bigger flat though and yours doesn’t have much more room than this one. Maybe a semi somewhere nice - or a cottage with a garden.”

Bodie laughed. He doubted it was going to be as easy as Ray suggested, that Cowley or anyone else who found out would simply accept the situation of their being together, a couple. His mind played with it for a moment - him and Ray a couple. It had an odd feel to it, a sense of unreality and he wondered at their chances of weathering the future storms. But he’s wasn’t going to let such thoughts spoil this moment, not for anything.

“Whatever you want, Angelfish. We’ll become suburbanites with an allotment an’ all. I’ll even help you with the turnips,” he told his lover and pulled him back down for another satisfying kiss.

Some time later, dishevelled and breathless, Bodie remembered something. “You haven’t said it back yet.”

“What? That I love you? ‘course I do, you daft prat,” Ray told him as he turned onto his back, pulling Bodie to lie on top of him and between his legs. “I adore you. Fuck me, now.”

And Bodie, feeling smug, self satisfied and wonderfully loved, obliged.

==============

The next time Bodie woke it was to the jangling sound of a telephone. Doyle, wrapped tightly around him, head resting on his chest, barely stirred at the sound and Bodie was forced to nudge at his ribs.

“Ray, phone.”

“Thas’ nice. Answer it can’t you?”

“Ray, it’s your phone and I can’t move anyway. You’re on top of me.”

“Hmmm nice bein’ on top. Nice bein’ on bottom too.”

“Ray, answer the bloody phone!”

“Whaa.. Oh, okay, got it.”

Ray finally rolled half off him and reached for the offending instrument, managing a reasonably awake sounding “Doyle,” into the mouthpiece, while Bodie idly traced his finger over a now accessible flank and listened to Doyle’s end of the conversation.

“Yes, Sir. He’s here. Stayed over in case of, you know, concussion or something.” Bodie sniggered and Doyle wiggled, then batted at the straying finger, sending his partner a frown before grabbing at a piece of paper and pencil to scribble rapidly. “Yeah, he’s fine. In fact he’s never been better.” Doyle smirked and Bodie answered with his best lecherous grin. “Right, Sir. On our way.”

“Cowley?” Bodie queried, moving his finger to even more interesting portions of Doyle’s anatomy, lechery still in place.

“Who else? And none of that now, no time.” Doyle told him, rolling completely off and heading to the wardrobe. “Nicole’s agreed to a safe house. Cowley’s arranged it all, took her and Nkosi there already. Cowley wants us there yesterday!”

Bodie groaned at the loss of the warm body but sat up anyway, deftly catching the clean underwear and shirt tossed to him by Ray.

They showered together, Ray carefully washing Bodie’s hair and tutting at the lump still visible on his head, before dressing quickly, Bodie pulling on the cords he had been wearing the day before and donning Ray’s shirt. As soon as he had it on he realised it wasn’t going to cover the marks horribly visible on his neck and Cowley at least knew where he’d been all night. Immediately seeing his problem Ray hunted around in a drawer until he found what he wanted. 

“Looks like it’s tie day for you, Sunshine,” he said, tossing the brightly multicoloured tie to his partner with an unrepentant laugh 

Bodie looked at the tie, then looked at Ray. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this.”

Ray walked over to him and taking the offending item out of his hands draped it around his neck. “It’s the only one I’ve got, mate. So you’re stuck with it,” he told him as he set about efficiently knotting the tie and drawing it up tight against Bodie’s throat. “And it has its uses.” Doyle added, with one last pull that brought Bodie’s mouth to his for an open mouthed kiss. Bodie had to agree.

 **PART FOUR**

It wasn’t a safe house, or rather; it wasn’t one of the many CI5 safe houses Bodie knew about. He was sure Ray didn’t either, judging by his expression.

“Should’ve stopped off at my place, could’ve picked up my tuxedo,” Bodie muttered, gazing in awe at the structure of gothic elegance in front of them; at the towers and too many windows and the trailing creepers growing wildly over the house from bottom to top.

“Or your lab coat and Igor,” Doyle responded, equally as impressed.

Cowley’s directions had led them off the M4 and down a side road several miles past Windsor and its dominating castle until finally they found the right gates and gravel driveway. Now they could only stare in wonder at the splendour that was no ordinary bolthole.

Staring back at them from its large ornate windows was a Victorian Gothic mansion of at least four stories, if you counted the attics set in the three towers. Like something out of a Hammer horror movie, the grey stone building loomed at them from the top of a slight rise. Dark, brooding and far too big. Bodie wondered what Cowley was thinking to bring his charges to such a security officer’s nightmare.

The driveway curved around to an open garage, also covered with rampant creepers, set at the side of the house and after Doyle parked the Escort they alighted to survey the almost jungle like state of the grounds. Trees, vines and bushes grew in unkempt profusion and Bodie doubted a gardener had touched the place in years.

“There’ll be two men in the grounds at all times,” Cowley told them as they unpacked the arsenal of weapons they’d collected from the HQ armoury. “You two will be responsible for security inside the house. The attics and top story are sealed off, the connecting doors made of reinforced steel so there is no access to or from those levels.”

“Handy,” Bodie murmured. “Especially if they decide to come in by helicopter.”

Doyle hid his smile and Cowley frowned but obviously decided a reprimand wasn’t worth the effort. “Familiarise yourselves with the first two levels,” he said instead. “The windows and doors have all been security checked but it won’t hurt for you to carry out your own checks.”

“Do you think there will be another attempt, Sir?” Doyle asked.

“I don’t know, Doyle. But, no one outside CI5 and the owner of this house knows we are using it and that owner is the Minister,” Cowley said, and added. “Someone wants either Johnny Nkosi or Nicole dead. I want us to be ready if they do try again.” 

“Any word on who planted the bomb, Sir?” Bodie asked.

“No one has claimed responsibility and if, as I suspect, BOSS has a hand in it then no one will. The South African Government won’t want to admit its illegal activities on foreign soil, or give any fuel to the anti-apartheid movements.” Cowley told them before leaving them to their own preparations.

They brought in the armaments and they checked every window and every door in the house. It was surprisingly modern inside, the front door opening onto a large entrance hall with a comfortably furnished drawing room and library on one side and dining room and study on the other. A curved staircase leading to the upper floors was set at the end of the entrance hall. The spacious kitchen area at the rear of the house was fitted out with the latest in cooking equipment, a walk in pantry and short staircase leading down to the cellar. There seemed to be doors everywhere, all giving various accesses to the rooms.

What surprised Bodie the most was the degree of security within the house itself. Every window, even those in the bathrooms, was a security window, fixed with thin but strong bars and locks. All the windows were draped with heavy brocade curtains. The doors secured with deadlocks.

The upper floor was given over to five bedrooms and two bathrooms and they had a bedroom to share, two single beds, a wardrobe - complete with a full set of clothing for both of them - and a bureau. Bodie thought it was a shame they wouldn’t be using it much.

“He’s crazy you know,” he muttered as he stood by the window watching Anson strut through the trees at the rear of the house, cigar smoking trailing behind him in a dense cloud. He wondered if he smoked the damn things in bed, he seemed to everywhere else, and if he did, if his bird minded. 

“Who?” Ray was sorting through the clothes in the wardrobe, finally pulling something out before coming to stand next to Bodie at the window.

“Cowley, of course! Told you before he’s sell out his own mother if necessary, for CI5’s benefit.” 

“Cowley hasn’t got a mother.”

“Course he has. Everyone has a mother.”

“Not him! Didn’t need one, did he. And he definitely hasn’t got a father,” Ray grinned, then his face became thoughtful. “You think he’s using Nicole and Johnny as bait, don’t you?”

Bodie paused, choosing his words carefully, “I think he wants to know for sure if someone is slipping an incautious word out to our South African friends.”

Ray nodded, “Yeah, ‘use any method’, as the old bastard would say. It might just work too.”

Bodie agreed. “What’ve you got there?” he asked, looking down at Ray’s hands.

The grin was back as Ray held up the polo necked jumper for Bodie to admire. “At least Cowley’s done us proud with the wardrobe! You can get rid of the tie now.”

Bodie returned the grin and accepted the jumper. The marks on his neck were a constant irritant and he was hard pressed not to keep trying to run his finger under his tie-tightened collar to relieve the itch. He doubted the polo neck would be much better, but he’d come to like the reminder of how the itch had got there. He quickly stripped off the tie and shirt, all the time watching Ray watching him, loving the heat in Ray’s eyes and the way they lingered, loving Ray. 

Finally redressed he reached for his partner and pulled him close. “Now, if you close your eyes, I’ll kiss you,” he told him, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively, trying for provocative. 

It seemed to work because Ray laughed, but did as he was bid. Bodie kept the kiss light and teasing, just tasting a little of what his partner had to give – no point getting too worked up. It was Ray who pushed to deepen the kiss, pulling Bodie closer. And it was Ray who finally, reluctantly, broke it, drawing back a little breathless.

“We’d better …”

“Yeah, we’d better,” Bodie agreed, lifting Ray’s chin and rubbing his thumb against the damp lower lip before leaning his forehead against Ray’s for a moment. Turning abruptly he headed towards the door, dragging Ray behind him by a firmly gripped wrist. “Next thing you know the Cow will be up here looking for us.”

Ray’s filthy laugh was music to Bodie’s ears as they headed downstairs.

===============

George Cowley had been busy and Johnny Nkosi had suddenly found himself caught in a whirlwind not of his making. When Cowley questioned Johnny after the bomb explosion Johnny hadn’t bothered reminding him of their past acquaintance - it had seemed so long ago and irrelevant to the current situation. It was obvious Cowley didn’t remember him in any case. When Cowley had taken Nicole back to his CI5 headquarters Johnny thought he’d heard and seen the last of him. Sending his staff home he’d packed up what was left of his belongings in his now wrecked office and started to head for home, wondering if he would have a chance to see Nicole again before she left for Johannesburg. That was when one of Cowley’s men had told him he was to escort him to a safe house, where Nicole would be waiting for him. 

So, now here he was, watching as Bodie worked with the supply of rifles and handguns he and his partner had brought into the house hours earlier. Stripping, cleaning, oiling, checking; the man was methodical, efficient and detached, a highly trained professional. They were all professionals, these men who had become entrusted with Nicole’s, and by default his, safety - he was under no illusion George Cowley’s extravagant care and protection was for Nicole’s benefit more than his own. In fact he wasn’t even sure why he had agreed to come to this safe house in the first place, just that Nicole wanted him to. But there was something about this man and his partner, a closeness that set them apart from the others, and something about Bodie himself he just couldn’t quite put his finger on. A feeling of vague familiarity and tenseness radiating from the man whenever he was in Bodie’s presence, and a feeling the hard exterior he displayed to the world hid more than it gave away. Yes, Bodie was a puzzle and Johnny couldn’t help but wonder where all the pieces fit.

He’d been on his way past the library when he noticed Bodie seated on the floor in the midst of the impressive array of weaponry, almost like a child playing with his toys gathered around him. Fascinated, he’d leant against the doorframe to watch, drawn to the sight of those large capable hands as they worked. If Bodie was aware of his silent regard he gave no indication, the dark head remaining bent to his task.

It was that bent dark head and the concentration which finally triggered the hazy memory that had been bothering Johnny. Dust, smoke, flame and violent noise in a place far away from England and a young man on the ground, clutching desperately onto a fallen comrade, crying so softly yet the sound seemed to penetrate into the subconscious of his silent watcher.

“Angola,” Johnny said quietly, coming further into the room. Bodie’s busy hands stilled for a heartbeat. Then the cloth he held moved again, gliding over the magnum .357 but the head remained bent. 

“Pardon?”

“It was Angola,” Johnny repeated. “Or more precisely, northern Angola. About seven years ago. San Antonio do Zaire, a steamy little ghost town in a slightly strategic position. You were there.”

Finally Bodie looked up from his task, his face still unreadable. “Yes. So were you,” he said at last. “There were lots of steamy little ghost towns though. Wouldn’t have thought you’d remember that one in particular.”

“It was the first one for me. I was sent as an observer, part of the mutual support between the ANC and MPLA. I’ve never forgotten! You were captured, weren’t you?”

Bodie nodded. “We didn’t stand a chance, not really. The MPLA were over us like flies. Our ammo ran out, never seemed to have enough of it anyway, and the Afs ... Africans we were supposed to be training hadn’t a clue. I was lucky, I got away, eventually. Away from Africa, away from it all. A lot of us didn’t. ”

It was Johnny’s turn to nod as he remembered the still figure in Bodie’s arms. “ _War, that mad game the world so loves to play,_ ” he quoted quietly. 

Bodie’s left eyebrow rose slightly. “ _And for it does so dearly_ _pay_ ,” he finished. “Jonathan Swift. Not exactly a sentiment I’d associate with the ANC.”

“Or a mercenary,” Johnny countered.

Ray Doyle’s sudden appearance at the doorway prevented Bodie’s immediate response, if he was going to give one. The two partners exchanged looks and Doyle’s attention briefly focussed on Johnny before returning to his partner.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Bodie answered him and the ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Mr Nkosi and I were just having a philosophical discussion on the nature of war.”

“Oh, yeah?” Doyle returned. “Old soldiers with old memories. Thought it was only Cowley dragged up the glory days.”

“Wasn’t only Cowley in a war was it? And there wasn’t much glory friggin’ about in a jungle either,” Bodie retorted, his voice a little snappish, causing Doyle to give him an odd look.

“I’m afraid it’s my fault. I brought the subject up,” Johnny explained ruefully. “And it’s Johnny,” he added.

Bodie finally stopped his compulsive rubbing of the magnum and lay the cloth down. “I don’t know about you, Johnny, but there’s a lot I would prefer to forget about those days.” Looking up he smiled openly at them both. “Never was much for glory anyway.”

Doyle laughed “Which is a good thing, seeing as how you’re not likely to get any!”

“Too true, old son,” Bodie responded.

.“Old memories are probably best left as that, memories,” Johnny said. “I was just on my way to the kitchen. Nicole promised to make _bobotie_ ; would you gentlemen care to join me?”

”Mention food to Bodie and he’s yours,” Doyle told him, holding out a hand to help his partner up off the floor.

“I’m a growing boy, need my nourishment,” Bodie answered him.

“Yeah, keep on eating the way you do and you’ll be growing into Sumo the Wrestler,” Doyle told him, causing his partner to put on a pained expression.

“Haven’t had much chance of that lately, have I?” he complained.

They both gave him a look when Johnny started laughing. “Do you two always go on like this?”

“Yep. Regular comedy act we are,” Bodie told him as they moved to the doorway.

“Ta da!” Doyle added, laughing at his own joke as Bodie playfully shoved him out of the room.

Johnny was still grinning as he led them to the kitchen, the men’s antics continuing as they headed down the passageway. But he wasn’t fooled. Their words were caustic, the banter casual but he’d no sooner want to get between these two than he would between a lioness and her cubs.

===============

“What’s _bobotie_?” Doyle whispered as they followed Johnny.

“A kind of curry made with lamb, sort of a cross between moussaka and a bread pudding. Got dried fruit in it too.”

“Sounds wonderful!” Doyle’s sarcasm was obvious.

“It is,” Bodie assured him, quite seriously.

The kitchen was warm and the smells enticing. Nicole was dishing food out onto plates while George Cowley examined something in a saucepan. He was wearing an apron. Bodie had never thought, in his wildest dreams, he would ever see his cantankerous, irascible boss in such a domesticated scene and wearing an apron. True it was a very plain apron, with just the hint of a frill as an edging, but still … 

Bodie dared a glance at Doyle, who was biting at his lower lip, and considered just leaving it. But that wasn’t in his nature.

“Didn’t know you were such a dab hand in the kitchen, Sir,” he said.

Cowley turned a jaundiced eye on his subordinate. “Which just shows that, contrary to your own opinion, Bodie, you don’t know everything,” he told him, adding. “And, of course, as you’re so interested you’ll want to try some of this haggis, won’t you? It should be ready to serve in about half an hour.”

The question had been phrased more as a statement and Bodie realised too late the trap that had been set and neatly sprung on him.

“Um, yes. Of course, Sir. Wouldn’t miss sampling your culinary excellence.” Bodie returned hastily.

Doyle was openly grinning at him now and Cowley immediately turned his attention in his direction. “And you, Doyle?”

“I’d love to try your haggis, Sir,” he replied, straightening his face. “Only, I have to go check in on Anson and Benny before the new shift comes on.”

“Ah, yes. Murphy and the new man, Mitchell, isn’t it, coming on at 8.00.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’ve time for some _bobotie_ though haven’t you?” Nicole asked as she placed filled, steaming plates of food on the table in front of them. Doyle nodded, grabbing up a fork. 

“I’m still not convinced all this is necessary, Uncle George,” she continued. “Especially now that Gerald Starling has backed out.”

“What? He’s not giving you the documented proof he said he had?” Doyle asked her, through a mouthful of food.

“No.  The bird has definitely flown. In fact his secretary said he’d gone off to the Bahamas on holiday.”

“Nice for some,” muttered Bodie.

“Yes, so my trip to England has virtually come to nothing.” Nicole sounded despondent and Johnny reached out to touch her lightly on the arm, then brushed a finger down her brow. “It seems all I’ve achieved here is to put both Johnny and me in danger.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, Nicole,” Johnny told her. “I think danger may have been here already, whether you turned up or not.”

Bodie watched the look they exchanged and wondered if Cowley knew just how involved these two were. The wonder became certainty because of course Cowley knew, he wasn’t blind and he certainly wasn’t stupid. Which brought him to the next obvious conclusion – their all-seeing boss might very well have sussed their little secret as well. Startled, he glanced at Doyle and met the amused green eyes. Ray shrugged and Bodie got the message. If Cowley had guessed about them there wasn’t much they could do about it, other than wait the old man out and see if he broached the subject. 

Paying his two agents no attention, Cowley took up where Johnny had left off. “Johnny’s right. Whatever train of events has been set in motion was started long before you came on the scene, Nicole. But by now BOSS will be well aware of your newspaper’s investigations and I’m sure they won’t like what you are trying to do.”

“I can’t leave it, Uncle George. You should know that, you and my father fought a war to make things better. I can’t do any less for my own country.”

Cowley looked resigned and Johnny concerned.

“Oh, both of you stop worrying so much. It’s going to be a long process before my paper has enough evidence to publish any kind of indictment against the Department of Information and the Government. It’s not like the UK you know. We can’t just suggest corruption, we have to have irrefutable proof, otherwise the Government will just clamp down and close the paper. That kind of proof is going to be a long time coming.”

“Which doesn’t mean the danger is any less for you.” Cowley was adamant, but held up his hand to forestall Nicole when she started to speak again. “I know you’re not going to be dissuaded so I won’t try. Let’s just enjoy this excellent _bobotie_ shall we?”

The food was, indeed, excellent. Bodie couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had a proper meal but it must have been at least a couple of days ago, and he wasn’t counting the bacon sarnie they had grabbed on the way to the safe house or the vaguely remembered chips snatched hurriedly some time yesterday. Something had always seemed to get in the way of eating properly – having to tail Nicole, Doyle leaving Headquarters without him, the bomb – which of course led to pleasant thoughts of exactly why eating hadn’t seemed so important the night before. Bodie enjoyed watching his partner clear his plate and ask for seconds. He always considered Ray didn’t eat nearly enough of the good things, too much organic stuff … couldn’t be good for a man.

True to his word, Cowley didn’t push the subject of Nicole’s investigations. Instead the conversation drifted to Nicole’s family farm in Northern Transvaal and the holidays Cowley had spent there. It was strange for Bodie and Doyle to have snatches of Cowley’s life that didn’t directly relate to CI5 and for a short space in time their boss was a surprisingly amusing raconteur and they were an interested audience.

“Isn’t it nearly time for you two to get on with whatever it is you need to be getting on with?” Cowley said, finally calling a halt to his reminiscences and returning his mind to the business at hand.

 “Yes, Sir.” Bodie responded with alacrity, hoping to get away before Cowley could remember the proffered haggis.

Doyle was already on his feet but Cowley halted him. “You’ve got time for a wee piece of haggis though, haven’t you?”

“Er, no, Sir,” Doyle told him. “Gotta check Anson, remember?”

“No, that’s right … Anson … and Benny too,” Bodie echoed.

“Well, Doyle’s quite capable of doing that himself. Come on Bodie, I know you enjoy your food.” Cowley was already at the stove, pulling the bag out of the boiling water. “Johnny, you’ll have some too of course. You’ll never find a more appetising haggis than this. And I’ve got just a wee dram of whisky to pour over it for you.”

Bodie and Johnny exchanged looks, both at a loss for an excuse to leave the table. Nicole was unashamedly grinning at them. Apparently oblivious to the undercurrent surrounding him Cowley continued dishing up portions of the precious haggis. Bodie and Johnny accepted defeat.

Before he made his escape Doyle bent over to whisper in Bodie’s ear, “I’ll just leave you to it, shall I? Enjoy.”

“I’ll save you some,” Bodie told him, smiling sweetly, making a mental note to make sure, one way or another, there would be enough left over for his partner.

 **PART FIVE**

 

They came at midnight, the witching hour – when the moon was full and shadows cast ominous shapes. Doyle stared from a window in the drawing room of the mansion, having just completed a tour of the rooms and inspected all the windows and doors, again. A set routine but one he varied every third or fourth round, just to make the boredom more interesting. Cowley occupied the study, prodigiously going through papers because, as everyone knew, he never slept. Johnny and Nicole were settled by the fire in the far corner of the drawing room, sitting close and talking quietly. Bodie was upstairs in their room, catching some sleep because he was due to relive Doyle at 2.00am. All was right with the world, until the single gunshot that shattered the silence and punched a hole in the window beside Doyle’s head.

While the gunshot made Bodie stir, it was the RT next to his ear and Doyle’s insistent voice that brought him to full consciousness.

“4.5 to 3.7. Wake up, Sunshine. We have company.”

Bodie grappled momentarily with the RT, fighting off the cobwebs of sleep to give his partner a mumbling reply. “The bad guys?”

“Can’t think who else would be shooting out the windows, mate.”

“Shit. On my way.”

The lights were out when Bodie arrived in the drawing room, apart from the minimal glow from small lamps atop the fireplace and from the flames of the fire itself. He could see the small, neat hole in the front window though, and its cobweb design of radiating cracks.

Doyle had taken up position on one side of the window, Cowley on the other and Bodie didn’t like the look of concern on their faces. Doyle was speaking into his RT giving the call signs for Murphy and Mitchell while Cowley checked the immediate area with a pair of binoculars. 

“Och no, these are hopeless. It’s too dark out there. They could be right outside the window and I’d no see them.” Anxious and irritated he jerked the binoculars from around his neck and tossed them onto a nearby table, before turning back to Doyle “Well?” he asked.

Doyle shook his head, “No answer.” 

“Just the one shot so far?” Bodie queried and Doyle nodded. “Where the hell are Murphy and Mitchell?”

“Don’t know. But I do know it would take someone very clever to take Murphy out. Maybe they’re just not in a position to answer yet.”

“Aye, maybe,” Cowley agreed. “But we can’t count on that. To all intents and purposes we’re on our own, gentlemen.”

“Oh, and before you ask, Bodie, the telephone wires have been cut. Tried it before you got here.” Doyle added the information for his partner.

“I can handle a gun, Mr Cowley.” Johnny and Nicole had moved away from the fire and closer to where the three CI5 men stood, though making sure to keep well away from the window. 

“And you know I can as well, Uncle George,” Nicole told them.

“Yes, yes. I know Nicole. And thank you for the offer Johnny. But it’s our job to protect you. So for the moment its best you leave us to do just that.”

“They’re being awful quiet out there,” Doyle commented. 

“Perhaps they’ve given up and gone away,” Johnny suggested.

“Would you? After one shot?” Bodie asked and Johnny shook his head.

“I don’t like it.” Doyle was staring though the window again, his eyes glinting in the reflected moonlight.

“Neither do I.” Cowley’s voice was grim.

Bodie remained silent for a moment, considering. Finally he came out with what he thought was a logical conclusion. “Only one thing for it. Try the front door, shall I? See if I can’t draw them out of their hidey holes.”

Doyle looked at him as if he were mad. Cowley’s look was more considering. He ignored Doyle and concentrated on Cowley. “What do you think, Sir?”

“Perhaps not the front door, Bodie. But if I remember correctly the cellar has an outside access. It may be possible for you to slip out that way without drawing a gunman’s attention.”

“We don’t even know where these gunmen are, let alone how many there are!” Doyle argued.

“No, we don’t. But Bodie’s right, we need some idea of the forces arrayed against us. A careful reconnoitre could give us that information.”

Doyle still looked unconvinced, angry even, but Bodie wanted to try it. Anything to break this edgy stalemate.

“Right,” Cowley said, issuing orders with the precision of the military commander he was. “Doyle, you go with Bodie to the cellar, cover him. Don’t waste any time out there, Bodie. Find out what you can then get back in here. No heroics. I’ll cover you as much as I can from here.”

Bodie nodded and drawing his gun from his holster, headed for the kitchen and the stairway that led down to the cellar, Doyle close on his heels. Small, with no other function other than to store unused furniture and a boiler, the cellar was a single dust and cobweb filled room. Bodie knew from their own reconnaissance that as the house sat on a slope the door at the far end of the room exited on level ground at the side of the building.

The door was solid and locked but the key remained in the keyhole and Bodie breathed a sigh of relief that there was no unwanted squeak of hinges as he cautiously eased it opened and peered outside. Doyle, the rifle he’d picked up on the way held in steady hands, stood close behind, the comforting feel of his breath soft on Bodie’s neck.

Everything was quiet and still, no sign of bad guys or movement. Holding his gun out in front of him he made to move further but Doyle, covering him now from the other side of the open doorway, stopped him with a look. “You heard the man. No heroics.”

Bodie nodded. “Just make sure you’re right here when I get back. I might need you and that rifle of yours.”

“Not moving till I see the whites of your eyes, Sunshine.”

Bodie grinned and edged out of the doorway, flattening himself against the outside wall. The garage was opposite, forming a small alleyway to the front of the house and he had a good line of sight both in front and behind him. A slight breeze ruffled through his hair but otherwise the night was still and perhaps too quiet. Glancing back he could just make out Doyle’s shadowy figure, poised, ready as always to cover his back. He edged along the wall until he reached the front corner of the house. Taking another second to survey the area and decide on his best option, Bodie chose the shortest stretch of empty ground to cross before reaching the relative safety of the beginning of the wooded area of the grounds. He covered the distance in a few long strides.

Moving swiftly now he wove a cautious path through the wild tangle of shrubs and trees, trying not to trip on exposed roots, heading towards the front of the house where he hoped he’d find what he was looking for.

He could smell them before he saw them, the pungent odour of cigarettes and barely visible tendrils of smoke reaching him long before he glimpsed the two figures crouched in a small clearing not far from the front wall of the property. They were talking quietly but not so quietly that Bodie couldn’t make out most of what they were saying.

“How many you think are in there, Fanie?” The speaker was slightly smaller than his companion and more rotund, his Afrikaans accent thick and guttural. A cigarette dangled from his lips and he was holding an Uzi.

“The boss’s information was that there’s no more than two, besides Nkosi and the girl.” The one the man had called Fanie was pulling cylindrical objects out of a bag and placing them carefully on the ground in front of him.

“Don’t like it, man. We should be on the plane to Jo’burg right now, nearly home. That’s the way it’s supposed to go – do the operation and, whether we hit the target or not, we get out before anyone knows we were there. Why’d the boss change it? Why now?” 

Fanie shrugged. “When I know what goes through that cold bastard’s mind I’ll let you know. In the meantime we do as we’re told, _nê?_ ”

Uzi holder removed his cigarette long enough to spit on the ground in front of him. “ _Bladdy rooinek_ , not his head in a noose if things go wrong, is it?” he muttered.

Fanie ignored the comment. “Pity Nico let that shot off though,” he said instead. “They must’ve heard it. They’ll be waiting for us. Told him no guns. That _ou_ doesn’t listen!”

“We’ll have a few surprises for them, _nê_!” Uzi holder sounded pleased with himself. “What about them?” he asked, nodding towards a nearby tree. Bodie followed the direction of the nod and caught his breath. Two figures were sitting propped up against the tree, heads lolling forwards onto their chests. They seemed to be tied securely in place. At least Bodie now knew what had happened to Murphy and Mitchell. 

“They’ll keep,” Fanie answered him. “We can take care of them when we leave. And put that _bladdy_ _stompie_ out!”

Uzi holder obediently took the cigarette from his lips and mashed it into the ground. It was down to the butt anyway. “Where the hell’s Nico? What’s keeping him?”

Both men looked up as another figure appeared, making its way through the bushes from the front area of the house. 

“About time! You set it?” Fanie sounded anxious, edgy. The man nodded and held something up.

As Bodie looked at the object in the newcomer’s hand then glanced again at the canisters and finally it all came together and he knew exactly what these goons were planning. It took another moment to calculate the odds. He couldn’t take them all out, at best he would get their obvious leader and maybe the new arrival, but the Uzi guy would be sure to get him and he had to get back and warn the others, otherwise they would never know the danger they were in.

But he was too anxious, too careless. The snapping of a twig was enough to alert the men and he was too exposed, caught on an open patch of ground, to gain cover. They saw him straight away their questioning voices and shouts followed by a volley of gunfire. He ran, fast and hard, body tense, waiting for the inevitable impact of a bullet in his back, trying to zigzag though the undergrowth and bushes, heading for the cellar door where he knew Ray would be waiting for him, ready. There was no returning fire from the house and Bodie knew his boss wouldn’t dare fire without knowing where his man was. 

He could hear the men fanning out behind him, moving to cut him off before he reached his refuge. The gunfire continued but it was sporadic, more calculated now rather than reactionary. A shot kicked dirt into the air in front of him. A second one zinged past his head and hit the tree next to him, spraying out bark chips that stung the side of his face and he felt the blood run down his cheek.

Finally he could see cellar doorway, it was a dark empty hole with no sign of Doyle and for a moment Bodie’s heart stopped. Had they beat him to it? Was Ray even now a bleeding, lifeless form on the cellar floor? He picked up speed, sending his body forward in a last desperate dash; so fast, so out of control that he was overrunning the doorway and skidding, trying to stop the headlong rush, in danger of ending up a tangled heap on the ground until a strong arm reached out from the doorway and, latching on to the collar of his jacket, hauled him into the safe darkness.

“Didn’t tell me you were bringin’ company.” the familiar voice was a balm to Bodie’s shattered nerves as Doyle stepped back into the doorway, rifle up, sending bullets into the darkness.

“Weren’t invited, were they,” Bodie said as he joined him. But there was nothing now to shoot at, an ominous silence having settled and no sign of Bodie’s pursuers. 

Doyle pulled back. “Where’ve they gone?”

“At a guess, the front of the house.” Bodie was panting, trying to catch his breath. “Ray, they’ve got explosives. And tear gas. We have to get up back up there. Now.”

“Shit!” Ray had the presence of mind to slam the cellar door shut and lock it. Keeping his rifle in one hand, he drew his handgun from its holster with the other and followed his partner up the cellar stairs at a run.

They made it to the top of the stairs before the explosion hit. Gunfire followed almost immediately and the slightly acrid odour of gas began to reach them. Urgent now, they bolted through the kitchen, fanning out automatically as they reached the passage. The front door had been taken out with the explosion, as well as most of the drawing room window as far as they could see through the swirling cloud of tear gas. A shadowy figure was silhouetted in what had been the front doorway, the head odd-looking, distorted and it took Bodie a second to realise the distortion was a gas mask. Both he and Doyle fired simultaneously but the figure was too hazy and already out of the line of fire and in the drawing room so all they had succeeded in doing was giving their position away.

Turning as one, eyes already beginning to sting from the drifting tendrils of gas, they ran back towards the kitchen and down the passage to the rear entrance of the library. Reaching the doorway Doyle glanced at his partner and Bodie nodded. Together they swung into the room, guns outstretched and ready. 

The gas hadn’t quite reached the centre of the long room; in fact it seemed to be dissipating slightly, so the tableaux that greeted them was clear and terrible. Nicole - terror written on her features, her eyes red and tearing - turning towards the doorway and possible safety; Johnny directly behind, attempting to shield her, and Cowley, leaning against one of the couches, trying to bring his gun up to fire left handed at the gas-masked man advancing on them, the other arm hanging uselessly by his side as a patch of red at his shoulder spread rapidly out across his shirt. 

Three shots rang out as one and the man staggered back. Doyle started on his way towards Cowley and Bodie began to ease from his shooter’s stance. It was then Bodie became of aware of three things. The first was that Johnny was inexplicably rolling across the coffee table with such amazing fluidity that, if he’d had time, Bodie would have admired it; the second was an awareness of the man in the far doorway leading from the drawing room; and the third was that the man’s gun pointed directly at Doyle, there were two gunshots, and it was too late for Bodie to do a thing about it.

=============== 

The explosion had taken them by surprise, their attention diverted by the sounds of gunfire coming from the grounds. Seconds before the front part of the house disintegrated Cowley had shouted for them to move back, some premonition perhaps or just the experience of an old fighter, Johnny wasn’t sure which, but whatever it was it had saved them. That was when the tear gas canister had rolled onto the ruined carpet, spilling out its noxious fumes.

The bullet hit Cowley in the shoulder as he herded them back through the drawing room to the library, the shooter appearing out of the swirling mist of gas like a deadly apparition. Barely a minute later they were trapped in the library, a wounded Cowley trying to turn and fire at the gas-masked monster. At the same moment both Bodie and Doyle appeared as if my magic, their guns blazing and everyone’s attention was riveted on the sole gunman. 

How or why Johnny noticed the other man moving into the library from the other doorway leading from the drawing room and lifting his firearm to aim at Doyle, he could never explain afterwards. But see him he did and his reaction was almost instinctive as he took a rolling dive over the coffee table to reach the gun he knew Bodie had hidden underneath, coming up, gun in hand and already firing a second later.

The man in the doorway fired just as Johnny’s bullet took him high and threw him backwards, the shot impacting harmlessly against the bookshelves behind Doyle.

The sudden silence was deafening. Doyle was looking with surprise at the man Johnny had shot. Bodie was looking at Johnny intently and when Johnny returned his stare Bodie nodded once, slowly and smiled. Johnny returned the smile. Cowley was by the couch, Nicole holding him steady.

Then the man with the Uzi walked in, followed closely by another man – a man Johnny was sure he recognised.

=============== 

Fanie thought he was in a dream, a hallucination. It had to be that, why else would everything have gone so horribly wrong. Nico was down, _vrek_. The _kaffir_ had got him with a shot out of nowhere. Didn’t even know the bastard had a gun. No more girlie magazines for Nico, or TV cartoons either. Never saw it coming did he? Stupid _doos_. When he turned his head the right way Fanie could just see Nico’s body and the bullet hole in the gas mask, right between his eyes. No walking away from that. 

Fanie thought he was dead too, or would be soon, the way he was bleeding. He could feel the blood seeping out of him, spreading wet and warm, leaking out his life force. He could taste it too, metallic and sour - maybe that was why he was hallucinating. At least a couple of bullets had hit him when those two _souties_ appeared and opened up on him. He’d know them again, those two, would remember them if they met up again. The thought was satisfying for a moment but was followed closely by another. _Ag, man_ , what was the point of remembering, he was dying anyway.

There was no pain yet though, just a far away feeling – like he was about to float off somewhere, free and light as a bird. He’d had the _kaffir_ right where he wanted him too, and the girl. The old man wouldn’t have been a problem, he wasn’t supposed to be there anyway – not according to the Controller at any rate. Damn, he wished he were back home, watching the rugby at Loftus, drinking Castle beer, taking his girl to the _bioscope_. Anywhere but in this _bladdy_ cold country where the sun never shone. He didn’t want to die here. Or worse, live and end up in the hands of those CI5 bastards. The Embassy wouldn’t help him or his Controller. Shit! Why him? It just didn’t seem fair.

But mainly he thought he was hallucinating because he was lying on the floor in his own blood, but his Controller, the man who had set the whole mission up, had set Fanie up, was standing behind Cyril, speaking in that plummy lisping voice to the people Fanie had been trying to kill but who had killed him. 

His Controller’s face was the last thing Fanie saw before the hallucination (if that’s what it was) began to fade out and a stark whiteness take its place. It wasn’t long before the whiteness faded to black.

===============

It was almost like a movie, a James Bond film perhaps, only in slow motion. His limbs had felt like sludge when he tried to turn and fire at the man shooting at Ray. But the film had speeded up and Ray was safe because of Johnny Nkosi. And Bodie knew he owned the man a debt he could never repay – his lover’s life. Only then there was one more baddy, as there always is in shoot ’em up thrillers, and a quick calculation told Bodie they had run out of luck, at least some of them were about to die.

That was when the Director yelled “cut”. Or more precisely the peculiar little man who walked in behind the Uzi toting gunman yelled in a commanding voice, “Stop. Hold it. All of you.”

And surprisingly enough everyone obeyed. 

“Gentlemen, lower your weapon please.” The man was exceedingly polite, his tone brittle. The gun in his hand was incentive to obey, as was the Uzi still being held by his companion. 

Bodie, Doyle and Johnny looked at each other, then at Cowley who nodded to them. They lowered their guns but didn’t drop them.

 “I think you can lower yours too, Cyril,” the man said. “As a sign of goodwill.”

Cyril looked hard at the man for a moment, before obediently dropping the muzzle of the Uzi so it pointed to the floor. The stranger, however, kept his own gun level and steady.

“I know you, don’t I?” Johnny said, uncertain but more positive as he carried on. “Craig Roberts. You came to my office yesterday, said you were a representative of International Educational Fund.”

“I think you’ll find, Johnny, that the International Educational Fund Have never heard of Mr Roberts.” Cowley was swaying slightly but still on his feet.

“Oh, on the contrary, Mr Cowley they know me quite well. I’ve been working for them for some time, gave me quite a good cover as a matter of fact. Shame that’s gone to waste now because of the incompetence of my men.”

“You set the bomb yesterday, you tried to kill us.” Nicole accused.

“Not exactly. The purpose was more of, shall we say, a warning to those who set themselves in opposition to a legitimate Government; to let them know that we can find them, and their friends, anywhere in the world. You really should be more careful who you mix with, Miss Goossens. Certain … associations might lead you down dangerous paths – place you in the field of danger.”

“And now you’ve come to finish the job? Is that it?” Johnny was moving slightly, trying to position himself in front of Nicole and Cowley.

“Do keep still, Mr Nkosi,” Roberts admonished. Johnny stopped moving. 

“My men were under a watching brief only,” he continued. “They were instructed not to endanger British subjects during their activities. We don’t want the wrath of the British Government brought down on our heads after all, do we? However, we do have the right to keep a watch on our dissidents and enemies. Its no more than what The British Government, your own department, does, is it not, Mr Cowley?”

“We don’t plant bombs or kill those in opposition to our policies.”

Roberts looked impatiently at his captives. “As I already implied, Mr Cowley, we were merely trying to ascertain the extent of Mr Nkosi's support within sections of the British Government and Miss Goossens’ activities are also a concern to us. A watch and wait policy. Regrettably my men took it upon themselves to exceed their instructions.”

“He’s lying, Mr Cowley.” Johnny was adamant.

“Of course he is,” Bodie backed him up. 

“Prove it Mr Nkosi and Mr … Bodie is it? I think you will find it very hard to connect me, my men or the South African Government to recent events or to tonight’s shambles. In fact I think you will find it hard to even identify us.

“Well, it’s been nice chatting, but my arm is getting a little tired and I really must be going.” Roberts stepped slightly away from Cyril, giving him more space, but keeping his gun trained on his captives. “Cyril, would you be kind enough to check your colleagues?”

Obediently Cyril moved to where Nico was lying and, crouching down, checked him quickly. Looking back up at Roberts he shook his head. He checked Fanie next, pulling off his gas mask and feeling for a pulse. “He’s still breathing,” he told Roberts.

“Very well. Give me the Uzi and take him out to the vehicle – it’s parked near what was once the front door.”

“What about Nico?”

“You said he was dead. We have no need of a dead man. Now give me the Uzi, I’ll cover you.”

Reluctantly Cyril handed over his weapon and bending down he lifted Fanie and hoisted him over his shoulder. Roberts watched as he headed outside with his burden, still keeping the Uzi trained on his hostages. When Cyril had disappeared he shook his head and said with a frown. “It’s so hard to find good men these days, isn’t it, Mr Cowley.”

“No, I find my good men very easily.” Cowley was ashen now and sweat was running down his face. Nicole had found a cloth somewhere and was holding it against his shoulder trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” He began to back towards the doorway, still keeping the Uzi level. “You know enough not to follow me I assume.” 

As soon as he had disappeared both Doyle and Bodie started forward but Cowley called out urgently. “No! Wait.”

Bodie turned a furious gaze on his boss. “Are we just letting them get away?” But his words were drowned out by the roar of a car engine and a spray of gunfire. Seconds later they heard footsteps advancing through the remnants of the drawing room. Bodie and Doyle brought their guns up, as did Johnny, who still had hold of the weapon he’d retrieved from beneath the coffee table. Ready for action they waited as the hurried footsteps reached the doorway breathing a collective sigh of relief as Murphy entered, gun levelled.

“Everyone okay in here?” Murphy asked, lowering his gun.

“Cowley’s been hit,” Doyle told him, glancing over to where his boss had now passed out on the couch, Nicole leaning over him anxiously. “What about Mitchell?”

“He’s fine. Sent him off on foot to the village down the road to find a phone box. The bastards disabled all the cars after they got us with that bloody tear gas. We’ve no hope of chasing them.”   Bodie noticed Murphy’s eyes were red and watery. “When we came to they had us tied to a tree and all hell was breaking loose but we managed to get the ropes off.”

Bodie looked around at the destruction. They’d been lucky, only one of them down, but the house was a mess. A quick check of Cowley revealed his pulse was slow but steady. Nicole had managed to slow the bleeding. After that it was simply a case of waiting for the ambulance.

The clean-up at the safe house was quick and efficient once reinforcements arrived, led by the Minister himself. Cowley recovered consciousness enough for a brief but intense exchange with him, after which the Minister took complete charge of proceedings. Murphy and Mitchell accompanied Cowley to the hospital so they could be checked for any residual effects of the tear gas and arrangements were made for Johnny and Nicole also to be checked before being taken to another safe house. 

The Minister released Bodie and Doyle from further duty for the time being and they hitched a ride to Cowley’s hospital with Anson, who was one of the agents called out for duty, and hung around long enough to be told their boss was out of theatre and would make a full recovery.

There wasn’t much else for them to do but go home, which in this case was Bodie’s flat as it was closer, tiredly undress each other, too exhausted to do anything more than touch and caress lightly, and collapse into Bodie’s bed in a tangle of limbs.

They slept for ten hours.

===============

Doyle carried the flowers, Bodie the chocolates and grapes. Which Doyle realised was a mistake when they were in the lift and half the grapes were already gone. They both hesitated in the doorway of the hospital room. 

George Cowley was sitting up in his hospital bed, right arm and shoulder impressively bandaged, a drip attached to his left. Nicole stood beside the bed. Johnny was propped by the wall, legs crossed, looking very much at ease. The room was full of flowers and fruit baskets.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawping. Hope this isn’t just a social visit mind and you’ve brought some information on Roberts and his men, along with those grapes.”

“Pushy old sod,” Bodie muttered as they entered. Nicole took the flowers from Doyle, saying she would find a vase for them.

“So, any sign of Roberts?” Cowley demanded as soon as Nicole had left.

“No, nothing. We’ve got the airports covered, ferries, the lot but he’s vanished and that sidekick of his … Cyril?” Doyle looked the question at Bodie who nodded confirmation. “Nothing on the wounded guy either and the dead one had no identification and his fingerprints aren’t on record.”

“Aye, I thought as much. The man has friends. They’ve gone to ground, probably got new passports by now, new identities.”

“Must be damn good, these friends,” Bodie said

“Oh, yes. Very good indeed. And unless I miss my guess, they reside in very high places.” Cowley told them, adding. “But not too far out of reach that they can’t be brought down.”

“We’re going after them, are we?”

“No, Doyle. Our job is finished for the moment. It’s up to the Minister now. Amongst other things he’s contacting the South African Embassy as we speak regarding the delicate issue of weapons and explosives being transported onto British soil via diplomatic pouch.”

“So that’s how they brought it all in,” Johnny said, pushing himself up from the wall and coming to stand beside Bodie and Doyle.

Cowley nodded. “It’s the most likely scenario. My concern is still Roberts, though. Especially as he’s still on the loose.”

“Who, exactly, is he?” Johnny asked.

“Funny you should ask.” Bodie grinned at him. “Doyle and I have been doing some checking and it appears Craig Roberts doesn’t actually exist.

“Well, not under that name,” Doyle jumped in. “We got onto Intelligence and they managed to trace him back through several aliases but what his real name is, is anybody’s guess. Seems Mr Roberts is, or was, a member of a special operations section of BOSS. One of its founder members in fact.”

“That insignificant little man!” Johnny sounded a little sceptical.

“That very dangerous insignificant little man,” Cowley corrected. “I’d be much happier having both you and Nicole remain under CI5 protection until he’s traced.”

“No, Uncle George.” Nicole had returned to the room, vase of flowers in hand. “Johnny and I are going, by ourselves, to spend a week in Lewis before I fly back to Jo’burg and as much as I like Bodie and Ray, they are not coming with us, _finish and klaar_.”

For a moment it looked like Cowley was going to object, carry the argument further and Bodie, Doyle and Johnny watched with some interest … and anticipation. But wisely the old man remained silent.

They discussed the implications of any further BOSS activities until the night nurse intervened and shooed them all out, demanding rest for her demanding patient.

It was close to twilight when they emerged. They talked for a while on the hospital steps, making arrangements to meet up after Johnny and Nicole returned from Lewis and before Nicole left to go home. Then Nicole kissed Bodie and Doyle on the cheek while Johnny shook their hands and they left, wrapped in their own world and each other.

Bodie watched as the pair disappeared into the night, their forms appearing to shimmer, ghostlike, in the fading light.

“What’d you reckon?” Doyle’s voice cut into his thoughts, bringing him back to himself with a start.

“Huh?”

“Think they’ll make it?”

Bodie kept his eyes on their friends until distance finally swallowed them. “Dunno. Got a lot against them, haven’t they. Prejudice … a Government even.”

“You think Roberts will come after them again?”

“Not here and not now maybe. But eventually …” Bodie didn’t want to continue the thought so he turned to his lover and because it was dark now and there was no one else around he slipped his arms loosely around Ray’s waist. “There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge in my flat, the real stuff – French.”

“Yeah?” Ray leaned in just a little. “How do you know it’s the real stuff?” he asked, his lips tilting up in the start of a smile.

“Cost a fortune didn’t it, has to be real. Got some strawberries and cream too.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh, guaranteed fresh by the girl in the supermarket,” Bodie told him. “So, what do you say we go back to my flat and we drink champagne and eat the strawberries, then smear each other with cream, lick it all off and I make mad passionate love to you?”

“Could get messy,” Doyle suggested, the smile full now, eyes shining.

“It could,” Bodie agreed.

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s go.”

 **EPILOGUE**

 

 _Over on the mountain  
Thunder magic spoke,  
"Let the people know my wisdom,  
Fill the land with smoke."_

 _Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Better run through the jungle,  
Woa, don't look back to see._

 _  
Forgerty, John    
_   
_1970_

 

Amongst the flats on offer they found a nice little unit in Chelsea with secure parking in a lock up garage at the back. Two bedrooms with a large kitchen and open plan lounge/dining room. They converted the spare bedroom into an office and computer room, Ray having developed a fondness for computer games. The flat was spacious enough for entertaining - usually their fellow CI5 agents. If any of them thought anything about the huge bed that occupied the main bedroom while the second bedroom contained bookshelves, a large desk a computer and a television screen with attendant Nintendo console permanently attached, and the rather small single bed in the corner, it was never mentioned. Or at least judgements were wisely kept to themselves.

There were times when Bodie wondered if they would make it as partners both in the professional and private sense, now their relationship had changed. Ray’s moody nature was hard to handle on a twenty-four hour a day basis; the need to keep one step ahead and ready to ward off impending battles a challenge. Apparently Bodie’s complete and unnatural (according to Ray) obsessive tidiness was an irritant demanding the forbearance of a saint (again, according to Ray). But they learnt to live with each other and they loved. In fact they loved very often and very imaginatively and that took care of most of the dramas and sulks. Life went on as usual.

It was six months almost to the day after the bomb explosion had shattered ANC Headquarters that Cowley called them into his office. It had been an ordinary day of tracking down international drug dealers and running gun battles - nothing to mark it as being exceptional or unusual and they were just about to go home when the summons arrived via Mary.

Bodie knocked on the door and Ray opened it. Cowley was standing by his desk looking down at a newspaper fanned across its surface. He was smiling. No, he was actually grinning, a bit like a cat who’d managed to grab all the cream. 

“I suppose you two haven’t seen this evening’s newspaper?”

“Eh, no, Sir,” Doyle told him. “Been a bit busy with, um, guns and things like that.”

“Yeah,” Bodie agreed. “And drugs. Why? Something we should know about.”

“Indeed yes, Bodie,” Cowley’s grin got, if anything, wider. “She did it.” Indicating the newspaper he stepped aside to allow his agents access. The headline was large and garish.

SOUTH AFRICAN JOURNALISTS REVEAL SECRET MILITARY SLUSH FUND CONNECTED TO DEPARTMENT OF INFORMATION

The details were finely etched and irrefutable, promising more revelations in future editions, the by line attributed to Nicole Goossens and a fellow journalist.

Doyle laughed. “She certainly has.”

Bodie kept reading through the article, his smile widening. “It’s all here, everything she told us about. I bet Johnny’s pleased,” he said. If he was about to add anything else it was left unsaid as the telephone rang and Cowley moved to answer.

They waited while Cowley listened, his features blanching white and his grip on the handset tightening before he spoke. “You’re sure? When? Yes, I’ll tell him.” and then “I’ll arrange to fly out tonight.”

He replaced the receiver and stood for a moment with his head bowed.

“Are you all right, Sir?” Bodie asked. 

“No. No, I’m not all right, Bodie.” With a heavy sigh he lifted his head and looked directly at the two men. His face had aged in the last few minutes.

“That was Nicole’s father. There’s been an accident. A light plane crash in the Drakensberg Mountains. Nicole was the only person on board, apart from the pilot.” Cowley paused for a moment, before continuing. “They suspect it may have been sabotaged.”

=============== 

ANC Headquarters lay deserted but for Johnny Nkosi, sitting alone in his office staring out of the window. His own newspaper, the one that had given him so much joy because it showed his lover’s success, lay neglected on the floor.

Mr Cowley had come to see him earlier with his news. The man had been white faced and grim with a sadness around his eyes that spoke of too much sorrow, too many losses. Bodie had phoned him as well, a little later, wanting to know if he was okay and should he come over. Of anyone, he knew Bodie understood best and he would seek out his and Ray’s company later, but not now.

Rain and sleet slashed against the pane, sending whorls and rivulets of water gushing down the slippery glass but Johnny wasn’t really seeing the results of London’s bleak winter. Instead his eyes were fixed on brilliant sunshine and open _veldt_ and laughing blue eyes that matched the sky stretched endlessly before them.

The phantom in Johnny’s vision turned and smiled at him, a sweet loving smile he knew so well. 

“ _Hamba kahle,”_ he whispered, tears streaking his face.

“ _Sala kahle,_ ” the phantom’s lips mimed in return before returning again to her journey across the _veldt_. 

Gradually the brilliant sunshine and endless sky faded, as did the phantom image and Johnny Nkosi was left to watch the rivulets of rain on the window.

-end


End file.
